


In Our Nature

by artsyUnderstudy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Dean, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Artist Dean, Developing Relationship, Discussion of Suicide/Self Harm, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Engineer Dean, Grey-Asexual Castiel, Happy Ending, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Minor Dean Winchester/Other, Minor Lisa Braeden/Dean Winchester, Misunderstandings, Omega Castiel, Romance, Screw Destiny, Sexual Content, Trope Subversion/Inversion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-01-24 08:17:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 62,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1597991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artsyUnderstudy/pseuds/artsyUnderstudy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's said that when you meet your truemate, every other person dims around them.  There's nothing like it, that base connection, that inescapable, magnetic pull.  It's the ideal, the thing fairy tales and romance novels are built on. </p><p>The day Dean Winchester meets Castiel Novak, he's sure he's never met someone so far from that ideal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_**Prologue** _

The summer heat was oppressive, sweat stuck to Mary Winchester’s pale skin even as the sun bowed below the line of the trees beyond her home.

She smiled at her children, two rambunctious boys covered in dirt and scrapes, ripped jeans and ruined shirts.  Dean, the oldest by five years, hobbled around their yard, his small hand clutched in his brother’s, a grin wide on his round face.  Sam hardly managed to stay upright much less keep up, half dragged around by his stronger sibling.  He looked to Dean with wide eyes, trusted him to keep them both safe. 

Dean laughed when he finally looked toward her, his gaze mischievous and affectious, picking up his pace as he turned to walk in her direction.  Dirt whipped into the air around his legs and caught the dull light from their porch where she sat, knees bent, feet on the grass.  Dean gasped a little when his toe snagged the exposed root of a nearby tree, and Sam’s hand tightened around his protectively.

Mary’s first and strongest instinct was to run to them, but she held herself steady.

Once Dean was close enough she reached easily out to him, the warm smell of grass wound into his honey brown hair.  She inhaled slowly, Dean and Sam’s scent filling her to the brim, winding its way between bone and muscle and settling in the space behind her ribs.  She pulled them close, breathing them in again, the dirt rubbed into her own pastel dress. 

“Momma I saw lightning bugs!” Sam told her, gripping at the hem of her dress with grubby fingers, and Mary laughed.  She ran her hands slowly through his shaggy hair, working out a few thin twigs.

“Did you now?”

Sam nodded excitedly, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“They were everywhere,” Dean explained carefully.  “It was awesome.  They were like Christmas lights... you know the ones that go on and off that grampa Campbell has on his tree?  I uh... I caught one.” Dean paused to stare down at his hands, and then held them out for Mary’s inspection.  “I let it go.  It started flashing faster and I thought it was scared.”  Mary smiled at him, reaching out and touching her fingers against the freckles on his cheeks, darkened from the sun.

“It was probably lonely.  You did a good thing to let it go,” she told him, and he nodded in understanding.  “Did you know the lightening bugs flash when they’re trying to attract their mates?”

“Mates!” Sam echoed, laughing.  “Like you and daddy, right momma?”  He nodded his chubby little head and laughed some more, tugging again at her skirt.  Dean rolled his eyes dramatically, but Mary noticed him trying to hide a smile as well.

“Yes, like me and daddy,” Mary agreed, watching her boys.  There was a pause, a quiet space where she considered herself.  Then she closed her eyes, pressing a smile to her lips.

“Did you know, little one,” she said to Sam, bowing her head to look down into his watery, hazel eyes. “Did you know that when you meet your truemate, it’s like the rest of the world dulls around them?  Their colors are the most vibrant and beautiful you’ll ever see, their scent the strongest, the most wonderful, perfect smell you can imagine.” 

Her sweet little Sam beamed up at her, and Dean’s brow pinched, mouth turned down, like he was trying very hard to imagine it.

Mary knew the concept was hard to grasp, it was hard for someone so young, hard even if you’d already felt it.  She had to believe that it was important, though.  That it was more than just potential and instinct and biological imperative.  Because what use was this if it didn’t mean love, or happiness.  Her pairing with John had brought her two beautiful boys, and she wouldn’t change them for the world. 

She touched the teeth marks she wore on her neck, scarred skin gone white with age.  This... it had to be fate.

“It can calm you when you’re upset,” she said, pulling back with a cheeky grin, reminding herself as well as her boys. “And it can excite you!” Mary poked at Sam’s belly and he chortled in response, Dean ignoring him to stare up at her.  She gave her eldest a soft smile, meeting his beautiful, open gaze.  “It can fill up all these lonely, empty spaces you never knew you had.”

She pictured John’s own wide smile when they’d first met.  His dark hair and lidded eyes.  The sudden ferocity of that feeling, of being completely swept up.  It was something more intense than anything physical she’d ever experienced, that vacant ache in her that seemed to dull when she found herself near him, his voice, the scent of his skin.  She tried to hold onto that, even when he was gone for weeks at a time, even when he was there but still cold and distant.  Even when she didn’t like him.

She considered her loneliness, the distress and weight of it.  She considered herself a firefly flickering and forgotten, out of sight.

Whenever she let him wrap her up something in her settled.  That never changed.  It was a base connection, as if they vibrated at the same frequency.  It was the strongest thing she’d ever felt in her life, and equally the most surprising.  With that, she knew her and John could make it through. 

Because they were made for each other.

“Not everyone meets their truemate,” Dean said slowly, knowingly, looking away from her and staring down at the grass.  Too clever for a boy not even eight years old.  “They can’t.  The world is too big.  They could get lost in it.”

“They could,” Mary nodded, pulling Dean close again, leaning down to press a kiss to his hair.  He inhaled deeply against the cloth of her sleeve, his lanky body relaxing in her arms.  “But, some of us get lucky.”  Very lucky, she told herself.  Lucky to be here, to have this.  To be safe and content.

“I don’t wanna be alone,” Dean mumbled into her dress.

“Don’t say things like that,” Mary told him quietly, understanding.  “You won’t be, not ever.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter Warnings:** Dean/Other, Alcohol Use

Nightmares were a common occurrence, these days.

Dean woke up in the dark, a blanket wrapped around his bare waist, twisted around his legs.  He could feel his heartbeat throbbing in his throat, a bead of sweat trailing down the side of his face.  He wiped at it with a shaking hand before pushing his fingers through his dampened hair, strands sticking to his clammy forehead. 

There was a wall he kept up, between himself and his memories, but dreams had a way of knocking the wall down.  Too tangible, too vivid.  They blurred the edges of his carefully constructed reality.

“Dean?” a husky voice murmured next to him, movement shaking the mattress. 

Dean closed his eyes, leaning back against the cool headboard and trying to keep his breathing quiet.  The air was thick with the scent of sex and sweat, pervasive when coupled with the other less familiar scents, the terry cloth and old wood and weed.  The cloud of sleepy disorientation lifted slowly, the muddled memory of glass shattered against metal, labored breathing and distant sirens.

The weight beside Dean shifted.  A warm hand fell to his chest, his shoulder, a face pressed against his neck.

His name was Aaron, Dean remembered.  He was short and a little stocky, with big, round eyes, and a good bit of scruff.  Not exactly what Dean would consider hot, not really his type.  The guy had actually looked him in the eye and bought him a beer.  His scent had been deep and earthy, his demeanor calming.  It’d been easy to talk to him, to kiss him against the brick outside the old bar, to ask him for directions back to his place.

He hadn’t been drunk, but he’d been toeing a thin line.

Aaron pressed his nose to Dean’s shoulder, and Dean could feel the breath Aaron took in against his heated skin.  The small omega scented him quietly, uninhibited by the relative short term nature of their acquaintance.  It’d been so long since someone cared enough to do so that Dean didn’t think to stop him.  It was weird, though.  Intimate. 

Aaron pulled back a bit once he was done, his deep inhales replaced with small, careful nips and kisses against his shoulder.

“You’re upset,” Aaron said, kissing him again.  Dean rubbed his eyes and shrugged, his weight still balanced against the thick wooden headboard and a single thin-pressed pillow.  “Wanna talk about it?”

“Not even a little,” Dean grunted, reaching up to grab Aaron’s hand, still splayed out over his bare chest.  He meant to move it, but he realized he liked the weight, liked that non-sexual touch.  His thumb brushed Aaron’s knuckles before he dropped his hand again. 

Aaron stared up at him for another moment before he finally shrugged, and Dean was really fucking grateful that at least Aaron was the kind of person who took no for an answer.  A lot of other people liked to push.  The whole damn appeal of one-night stands was not actually having to get into these invasive personal bullshit talks.

“You wanna fuck?” Aaron asked, his voice pitched low and playful.  Dean laughed and turned to the man at his side, his thick hand reaching beneath the sheets to clutch Aaron’s hip, the flesh soft and warm beneath his palm, thumb against the bone. 

Yeah, yeah a distraction was definitely good. 

The scent in the air shifted, a low growl pushed up from Dean’s throat, his lips arching into the vibrations.  He could feel the heat already pooling low in his stomach, at the swollen base of his cock.

“You already want my knot again?” Dean pestered with a grin, leaning down to mouth at the hollow of Aaron’s throat.  His teeth were bared against the skin.  “Want me to mark you up?”  Right, like he _really_ needed to ham it up.  He wasn’t into this shit, this porn-talk, but he needed to cut through the goddamn tension and the dreary haze he’d woken up in.

 “You weren’t so mouthy a few hours ago, alpha,” Aaron chided, even as he bared his throat for him, Dean biting his way lazily up the column to the thick scruff at his jaw.  “Should I get on my hands and knees, present myself like a good little omega?”

“Fuck you,” Dean grinned, pushing down the covers and climbing on top of him.

\--

The morning brought a headache with it.  Cheap whiskey and cheaper beer will do that, turns out.

Dean pulled on the previous night’s clothes with as much dignity as one semi-hungover, fucked-out man could possibly manage.  That was, tripping with one foot pushed halfway through the leg of his rumpled suit pants, hopping and gripping the edge of a rickety, dented wooden dresser for support.  Once he was halfway decent, smelling only vaguely of smoke and beer and general cusp-of-adulthood disappointment, he turned toward the door that led out of the studio apartment, pointedly not asking for Aaron’s number, and Aaron thankfully not offering it. 

He let himself out just as Aaron lit up, the smell of pot making his eyes water even as he closed the door between them.  Pulling his jacket tight around himself, mouth dry and limbs aching, Dean stepped into the chill April air, the pavement worn and dirty beneath his boots, dirt and cigarette butts and pennies blackened with grime. 

It took a few minutes of wandering before Dean figured out where he’d parked his goddamn car the night before, on the curb half a block down from the old brick apartment building.  He wasn’t overly familiar with the neighborhood, but if he could navigate Chicago’s west side half-drunk and half-hard in the middle of the night, he could probably fucking manage it now.

Finally climbing into the relative sanctuary of his ‘67 Impala, Dean took a moment to press his forehead to the cool leather wheel, fingers digging into the stiff cloth of his pants.

He would sit there as long as he could.  He took what little reprieve he was offered.  Dean loved his job, or at least he loved the idea of his job.  He loved the idea of the places where his job would eventually lead him, to creating and building something of his own.  Some days, though, he woke up hungover, the scent of some stranger still clinging to his hair, and he just missed being back at the shop with Bobby in Sioux Falls, getting to work the warm metal with his bare, greased hands.  It’d been simple.  Just putting shit back together.

Sioux Falls was in his rear view mirror, though, and working under Bobby at what was ostensibly a junkyard wasn’t a career.  That shit wouldn’t keep him afloat, and he hadn’t gotten an engineering degree just to go back and do exactly what he’d done throughout high school. 

Twenty-five years was too old for that shit, probably.

He had the sudden urge to pull out his cell, dial a number he still knew by heart no matter how long it’d been since the last time he’d actually needed it.   Grimacing, Dean shoved the idea aside and focused on his more immediate situation.  His mouth tasted like shit.  He sighed as he ran his tongue over his teeth, incisors sharp against the soft flesh.  There wasn’t time to go home and wash up before work. 

Thanks, past Dean, for thinking this shit through.  You’re a goddamn inspiration as always.

Dean pulled back from the steering wheel and fished his keys back out of his pocket, the engine turning over with a familiar, low purr.  He ran his hand over the sun-warmed plastic of the Impala’s dash, feeling her thrum beneath his fingers.  Then, shaking his head, he shifted her into reverse and pulled out of the space.

\--

The remnants of last night still clung to his hair, day-old clothes itching against his skin as he made his way through the old brick office building, eying stone floors and plaster walls.  He moved past floor to ceiling plate glass windows, a simple barrier between himself and large open lab spaces full of disconnected car parts, metal frames and little plastic latches and knobs.  The skeleton of one of their newest models sat half torn apart in the dead center of the lab to his left. 

It was too early in the morning for testing, but the taste of it hung in the air, a metallic, cloying scent, a pressure against his teeth.  Steel and grease and fresh welds.  It was strong, but comforting and familiar. 

Dean was so distracted by it he plowed into some unfortunate bastard at the foot of the stairwell.  There was a smack of something heavy hitting the floor, a rustle of papers, and suddenly Dean was staring into a pair of frustrated, tired blue eyes and a dark, pinched brow.

“ _Excuse_ you,” the man growled, his eyes flashing. 

“Uh, shit.  Sorry,” Dean tried, almost managing to sound sincere while biting the inside of his cheek.  The guy physically bristled, his dark hair wild as if it were somehow directly connected with his distress.

“It’s considered useful to actually watch where you’re going,” the man said through clenched teeth, his voice whiskey-deep and threatening.  “Before you really hurt someone.”

Dean stared at him for a moment, blinking.

“Are you serious?” Dean asked, a little breathless.  “Man, it was an accident.”

The guy glared, picking him apart with his eyes.  Then he leaned in.  Inhaling slowly, his frown deepened, eyes roving over Dean’s rumpled clothes.  Dean bristled at the action.  It felt aggressive, judgmental.  He _really_ didn’t like it.  Dean felt his lips pull back in a scowl as he stepped away.

“Wow.  Screw you, jackass,” Dean spat.

The man shot him a look, opening his mouth like he wanted to say something, but Dean didn’t give him the chance.  He shoved past him, shoulders knocking painfully, only half-registering a pile of papers shifting under his probably dirty boots before bounding up the concrete stairs.  He felt eyes trained to his back until he rounded a corner.  

Dean pushed his way into the hallway of the building’s third floor, the heavy door falling shut with a loud click behind him.  What the hell was that guy’s problem, anyway? Dean took a deep breath, teeth clenched, head slightly pounding.  

Whatever.  Didn’t matter.

The office space Dean worked in was split down the center, rows of desks separated by thin, shoulder-height walls.  There were closed offices around the periphery, floor to ceiling windows overlooking the busy street below, the sound of the ‘L’ howling as it passed nearby. 

The space was in a different sort of disarray than the labs, some small car parts strewn across communal desks for hands on testing, design notes and ink and half empty cups of coffee.  Stunk like foam plastic and stale caffeine and laundry starch.  Before Dean could even begin to head toward his own space near the back wall of windows he was intercepted.

“You’re a mess,” the man in front of him grinned, his voice a low, grainy Cajun drawl.  He looked fondly at Dean, his thick hand reaching out to clasp his shoulder.  All the frustration Dean was carrying around seemed to slough away.  “Seems like you had quite the tumble, ‘less that’s a fight I’m smellin’.”

Dean grinned and shot his friend a suggestive wink.  The other man laughed bodily in return.

Benny Lafitte was the ideal alpha at first glance, with his thick, broad frame, dark scruff and a voice like worn leather.  He was pure potential, he radiated it.  Even Dean had to admit the scent of virility was overwhelming.

The truth was that Benny was a fuckin’ teddy bear.  Yeah, the guy could hold his own in a fight, and he could probably kick Dean’s ass if he was pissed enough, but Benny was one of the calmest, kindest, most level headed people Dean knew, alpha or otherwise.  

Something about Benny was different that day, though.  Even his posture was a little off.  His scent was less intrusive, leveled out.  There was a very distinct lack of tension in his shoulders.

“How’s Andrea?” Dean asked, a real smile splitting his lips.  Benny returned the warm expression, his eyes soft.

“She’s beautiful, brother,” Benny said, clapping him on the shoulder again and squeezing.  “Gave me a scare, but we got through it.  Doctor said we should come back a few weeks before she’s due to make sure, but they don’t expect another complication.  She’s takin’ it real easy.”

“That’s the best news I’ve heard all week,” Dean said, his voice worn but optimistic, reaching up to run his hand through his hair.  Benny nodded and let him go, turning back around toward the closed offices.

“Hang onto that good feelin’,” Benny sighed, “Got a meeting with the big man in a couple hours, bringing in new blood for the department.  From what I hear, the guy’s brilliant but hell to work with.  Got a real stick up his ass.”

“Great, just what we need.  Thought we’d get a break after Gordon.”

“The guy’s not unstable, alright?  He’s just... rigid,” Benny explained.  “Or so I’m hearin’.”  Dean nodded in a sort of uneasy understanding.

“Yeah, well, anyone’s better than that asshole,” Dean finally growled, raising a hand in a dismissive wave as Benny nodded, rounding and heading toward a closed office.  Dean made his way to the opposite end of the large room, looking around to see Charlie already hunched over her desk, typing away at her computer and poking at the Hermione bobble head she had propped up next to her screen with the tip of her nail.

“You wore those clothes yesterday,” Charlie muttered, barely glancing at him, long, fine red hair whipping around her shoulders while she continued tapping distractedly through her email messages.  She extended a fist casually over her shoulder.  “Congrats on the sex.” 

Dean snorted and bumped her fist before mussing her hair, and she groaned exaggeratedly.

Charlie Bradbury was one of the only omegas in the department, and she could bury them all, Dean included.  When it came to tech, she was the best they had.  She could tear apart an engine and put it back together again without ever leaving her computer.   

In opposition to Charlie’s cluttered space, Dean had fairly few personal affects strewn around his small desk.  No photos, no series paraphernalia, no books or old postcards or anything to remind him of where he came from or where he was going.  The only thing he really had was a little toy car near the edge of his shitty scratched up computer monitor, a replica of his Impala, hand-painted black because it’d been red when he bought it.  The initials S.W. and D.W. were etched into its base, framed by four little black wheels.

Dean seated himself on his shitty office chair and buried his face in his hands.  He felt restless already, pent up and drawn taut.  He took a moment, pushing aside a pile of crash report invoices on the same faulty engine to uncover a large sheet of gridded paper, damaged folds around the edges. 

Fingers pressed to the page, Dean traced the slightly raised lines of dark ink, the worn indention of the press of a pencil.  His eyes glossed over notes scrawled around the illustration, carefully inked metal on the frame of his design.

There was half a breath where he considered himself before he pulled away.  He shouldn’t leave this shit out in the open. 

Without another thought, Dean folded the paper and stuck it in the inside pocket of his jacket.  Then, he shook himself out, shoulders to waist, and tried to focus on his work.  If he was lucky he could get through a good chunk of his emails before he had to go meet this new guy. 

Hopefully that wouldn’t be so bad.

\--

Dean had expected someone difficult, yeah, but what he hadn’t expected was Castiel Novak.

The first thing Dean noticed were those cold blue eyes and that scowl, like everything in the general vicinity either confused or offended him.  Dean almost, _almost_ , didn’t remember their collision in the stairwell a few hours earlier until Castiel’s eyes trained directly on him, unapologetic, lip curling.

Dean should have felt bad, he knew that, but Castiel’s shitty attitude made him petulant.  So, like the grown-ass-man he often had to remind himself he was, Dean just grinned up at the surly fucker, leaning back in his seat and latching his hands together around the back of his neck.  If he could have gotten away with it he would’ve propped his feet up on the desk for good measure.

Someone cleared their throat, and Castiel just kept on staring like it was his fucking job.

Dean heard Victor shift, leather shoes against the rough carpet, no longer rifling through his briefcase.  Everyone else in the room was quiet, Benny to his left, staring carefully between the two of them, and Charlie to his right, wide-eyed and fidgeting like she expected shit to go down.

“The hell is wrong with you two?” Victor asked, dropping a heavy binder onto the wooden table in front of him.  His patience was already hanging on by a very thin thread.  “Is there a problem here?  Do you know each other?”

“No problem, sir,” Castiel responded stiffly, glancing away from Dean, shoulders pulled back.  Charlie huffed, and Dean elbowed her.  She hit him back, harder.

“Nope,” Dean said, “no problem.” 

Dean winked at Castiel, the other man’s lips twitching and brow pulled so tight to the center of his forehead it looked painful.  It was a visceral reaction, that feral tick in his core begging to feed off that scowl.  Every ounce of Castiel’s energy was focused on him.  Only him.  Animosity like rain in the fucking desert.

“Right.  I really shouldn’t have to say this but I damn well expect you to act like adults.  We don’t need any more dumb incidents in this department, understood?”

“Incidents?” Castiel asked, finally peeling his gaze completely away from Dean.  Victor sighed and rubbed his palm against his shaven head, dark skin contrasting nicely with his white button up.  Victor was a handsome guy, a nice, sharp scent for a beta.  Dean could appreciate that.

“That’s a little complicated.”

“I’d prefer not to have any surprises,” Castiel responded, frowning. 

“The last guy we had in here in your position had some aggression issues,” Victor explained, looking mildly defeated. 

Dean exhaled a sharp laugh.  Aggression issues.  That was putting it goddamn lightly.  Gordon had been beyond aggression issues, even for an alpha. 

Castiel shot him a look and Dean closed his eyes, not willing to get into it.  About Gordon of all fucking things.  Dean focused on a slow inhale, taking a moment to scent the air, partly to calm himself, partly to try and get a read on Castiel.  Not that it mattered.  Just couldn’t help but be curious. 

The board room was cramped and stuffy, too much body heat and not enough air flow. 

“Look, this meeting isn’t about airing all our dirty laundry.  We had him on suspension a couple of times before we laid him off.  Decided to christen the occasion by getting himself incarcerated for assault.”

Dean cringed.

A homeless omega, those were the words Victor wasn’t saying.  A kid was nearly beat to death after asking for some fucking change.

Dean swallowed the bitter aggression, a weight in the hollow of his throat, and focused.  Castiel smelled… well, it was weird.  It was hard in a room of twenty-odd people, too, so he half chalked it up to that.  Usually, though, people gave off some kind of _something_.  Castiel was just implacable.

“You alright?” Benny asked gruffly, slapping his shoulder with an open palm and distracting Dean from his confusion.

“What, yeah,” Dean muttered, sitting forward, elbows braced on his knees.  Victor turned toward the group again, all business.  Castiel stood basically at attention beside him, his face still set angrily despite the shift in focus.  Maybe he just always looked like that. 

“Alright, we’re not just here to get acquainted.  Mr. Novak’s heading a new project, so you might want to start kissin’ ass if you want to be a part of it.”

“Wait, you mean new?” Dean asked, his voice hesitant.  “As in not a rehash of last year’s model, tweaking the engine and slightly remodeling the chassis?” Dean continued.  “Like… _new_ new?”

“New, new,” Charlie parroted back, like she couldn’t fucking help herself.

“I don’t know how repeating the word somehow alters its meaning, but yes.  That’s the widely accepted definition of the word ‘new’,” Castiel said, condescending, eyebrow half-cocked, mouth an immovable, thin line.

Castiel reached into his briefcase, propped open on the desk, for a thin manila folder.  It was in disarray, the contents shoved around haphazardly in opposition to the neatly printed labels.  Castiel frowned at it, his long fingers pressed to the paper.  Dean felt his stomach twist up when he saw half a dirty boot print at the edge, the thick paper torn and wrinkled around it. 

“The company is working on proposing an entirely new vehicle design at the end of November.  We’re building this from the ground up, so I’ll,” Castiel took an almost inaudible breath, his eyes flickering to Dean.  “I’ll need all the assistance I can get. This company's design department is... severely lacking.”

“So it includes design work?” Dean asked, leaning back in his seat and folding his arms protectively in front of his chest.  His heart was beating a little too fast and he wished it would calm down.

“Of course,” Castiel said, more to the others than to him.  He wouldn’t meet his eyes.  “Down to the dashboard setup and seat covers. Most of it will come down to mechanics, though, to making the design feasible.”

Dean suddenly thought of all his folders, binders, drawers filled with dirty gridded paper, graphite dust and ink.  He touched the spot above his ribs where his sketch was tucked into his jacket pocket.  Felt it crumple under the pressure.  Even if Castiel could get over this stupid incident… there was no way.  There were probably a hundred better and more experienced engineers, or designers for that matter, in the building, in the company.

Even Benny could draw decent framework, despite the fact that he was still less interested in that than the engines they covered.  Benny liked to figure out why shit went wrong.  He spent more time downstairs in the lab if he could help it, overseeing trial runs and efficiency tests.  He liked to be in the room when shit went wrong whereas Charlie just recreated the problem through programs on her laptop, compiling data, working numbers. They kind of butted heads about it. A lot.

Dean liked it all, though, and had more than a dozen fully detailed car designs, tweaked engines and notes down to the door locks. 

“It’s still in early stages, but we’ll be working over the next few months to prepare.”  Castiel set the folder down in front of him, still tracing the edge with his nail, catching the tear.  “I’ll make my decisions about the team in a few weeks.” Castiel almost pointedly didn’t look at him as he said the words, and Dean’s stomach dropped a little further, eyes fixed on a dirty spot on the wall behind Victor.

Right, because in what universe would Castiel Novak ever choose him?

\--

“Dude, what the hell was that?” Charlie asked, arm latching with Dean’s. 

It was windy, the air thick and overcharged, itching at Dean’s uncovered skin.  It’d probably rain soon.  They made their way down the narrow, dirty sidewalk toward the shitty little café at the corner.  Lunchtime meant iced coffee and hot sandwiches when Charlie was involved.  He missed Benny.  Lunch with Benny meant meat. 

“Dean, hello?”

“What?  I’m dreaming of the steak that could have been.  Don’t distract me.”

“You sure you’re not thinking about ‘blue eyes, cold glare’ back at the meeting?  Seriously, did you guys… you know,”  Charlie twirled her hand into the air, like that explained it.  “I think you nearly knocked Garth out, you two stunk of unresolved aggression.  It was… weird.  Super weird.  And awkward for everyone.”

“We never fucked,” Dean sighed, rolling his eyes.

“Well, maybe you should.”

“Fuck you,” Dean growled.  He stopped in front of the door to the café, a group of twenty-somethings bustling their way out with orange mocha frappe-fuck-yous in their hands.  Coffee was way too complicated these days.  “Dude’s just got a massive stick up his ass,” he finally said, done glaring at the drinks.

Charlie giggled, because she was a child.

“Shut up.  I’m starving and we gotta be back by one,” Dean said, tugging at her again.  He thought he heard thunder roll somewhere far off and it made his hair stand on end.

“Wait,” Charlie said, her voice suddenly serious.  She gripped his coat sleeve and kept him in place.  “You excited about the project?”

“We can’t talk about this in there?” Dean asked, staring down at her.  She rolled her eyes and moved, dragging him inside the café.  There were paintings hung on every available wall space, mostly abstract bullshit Dean really didn’t get.  They had a fresh collection every few months, each new painting more confounding than the last. 

“That one looks like a vagina,” Dean pointed. 

“Don’t change the subject, they all look like vaginas,” Charlie said, pulling him into line.  It smelled amazing in there, he’d give it that.  Coffee grounds and freshly baked bread.  The place wasn’t so bad.  The music was new-agey and sucked the big one, only a step above Enya, but he’d forgive it the little transgressions.  They had mini apple pies.  “Dean!”

“What, fuck.  Sorry.  Why should I be excited about the damn project?”

“Come on, don’t pretend like this isn’t something you want.” Charlie said, pulling him forward as the line moved.

“What the hell would it matter if it was?  Most designers have at least two years more experience than I do, and Castiel hates me.  Not sure you noticed.”

“You should talk to him.”

“What?  Why?”

“Because you want it.  And you never let yourself have stuff that you want,” Charlie said. 

Dean sighed, trying and failing to snuff out that spark of hope as the line cleared in front of them.  They found themselves standing at the counter in front of an unimpressed looking barista.  The wooden counter was rough against Dean’s fingertips, his mouth watering with the promise of food. 

“Fine,” he said, not looking down at Charlie.  “I’ll think about it.  What are you having?  It’s on me today.” 

\--

In the end it was mostly a split second decision.

The sun was low in the sky, grey with clouds, the building shaking with the rattle and screech of the passing train.  There was muffled shouting from the street below.  Dean noticed Castiel exiting a closed office and heading out into the main hall, dropping what he was doing to follow him.

Castiel hunched his shoulders when he moved.  He wore a too-big trench coat over his suit that made him look shorter and stockier than he actually was.  Dean watched him for half a second, weirdly entranced, before he called out, almost too late to catch him before getting to the stairwell entrance.

“Hey, Castiel! Wait up,” he said, his voice a little thick.  Castiel’s posture tightened and he turned, staring back at Dean with a look that was less animosity and more resignation, maybe a little curiosity.  His head cocked a little to the side.  Part of Dean knew he should apologize first, maybe gain himself some brownie points, but Dean still felt his offense was pretty fucking trivial. 

“I want you to put me on the team,” Dean said instead.  “I think I should be considered.” 

Castiel frowned at him, his hand tightened around the handle to his briefcase. 

“Why, exactly, should I do that?” Castiel asked.

“You’re seriously gunna keep punishing me for an accident?” Dean asked, his anger flaring before he bit it down again.  He shook his head.  “Look, I’m young, but I swear I’m good.  Probably want the opportunity more than anyone else in this building.   Just give me a chance, man.  Please.”

Fuck him, he was begging.

Castiel’s expression softened for a beat, and Dean was so fixated on it he barely noticed Castiel moving into his space, two, maybe three feet between them.  Castiel was older than Dean, he realized, maybe early thirties, and he was only an inch or two shorter than Dean without the slouch.  Dean instinctively corrected his posture at the proximity, moving so that their bodies were perfectly parallel, shoulders back where Castiel leaned forward. 

This close Dean could breathe him in, size him up.  There was no aggression in the gesture, he wasn’t like that, but it was still base, instinctual.  Necessary.

Castiel’s scent was easier to pick up now, but Dean still couldn’t lock him down.  It wasn’t bad, really.  It was just soft.  There was something kind of washed out about it, like perfume still clinging to yesterday’s clothes.  All Dean could assume was that Castiel was a beta, because he’d never met an alpha or an omega with such an unobtrusive scent. 

Maybe it was why they couldn’t get along.  Whatever he was and whatever Castiel was were somehow not even registering on the same fucking scale.

“I have no doubt that you want this position, Mr. Winchester,” Castiel said, his eyes focused.

“Just call me Dean, man.”

“Dean,” Castiel amended, his voice hard.  “What you fail to understand is that my discomfort with you has much less to do with your inattentiveness than it does with the fact that you seem to think it’s _acceptable_ to come to work reeking of alcohol and sex.”

Dean gaped at him, backing up a step at the accusation.  It wasn’t wrong, but it was fucking unfair.  What he did when he wasn’t at work wasn’t any of Castiel’s fucking business.

“Some of us take this seriously, Dean, and so far I don’t see any reason to believe that you do.”

“Are you kidding me?  The hell does my personal life have to do with anything?  I do my fucking job,” he snapped, hardly realizing he was baring his teeth before he stopped himself.  Dean did do his job.  Coming in early, staying late, working weekends.  Dean was a lot of things but a bad employee wasn’t fucking one of them.

“And your conduct in the meeting?  You believe that was acceptable?” Castiel prodded, voice still calm.

“Dude, you nearly fucking attacked on sight.  Don’t pretend you’re blameless,” Dean said, feeling the aggression roiling under his skin, his feet shifting.

“You acted inappropriately amused at the mention of your ex-coworker,” Castiel explained.  “And you –“

“Back the fuck up,” Dean snarled, well and truly pissed now.  “Gordon was a fucking psychopath who nearly beat some poor kid to death for daring to fucking _speak_ to him while he was pissed off.  So, Cas, forgive me if I think ‘aggression issues’ is a little fucking inaccurate.”

Dean took a deep breath and widened the space between them even more, running a hand through his hair.  Castiel gaped at him, thick lips parting in a silent breath.  Fucking bastard.

“Whatever, _Mr. Novak_.  Forget I said anything,” Dean finished, turning and stalking back down the hall.

\--

Dean nearly ripped a hole in his jacket pulling open the wire gate that led to his small house, pressed in tight with his neighbors.  They were all out, lights dim in the windows and the street still crowded.  He could hear the music coming from the club a block down, vibrations from the bass reverberating dully through the sidewalks, but he wasn’t into that scene so much these days, and especially not tonight.

Give him a crowded bar, a little Zepp or Black Sabbath on the jukebox, an interested partner that didn’t ask a lot of prying questions.

He walked the short distance to his door, kneeling down to pick up a stray piece of mail that hadn’t quite made it through the slot.  His heart leapt a little at the nondescript envelope, but turning it over he realized it was just one of those envelopes full of coupons for pizza delivery places and carpet cleaners and Mexican restaurants that he’d never heard of.

It was just that kinda day.  Not like he should have expected different.

He shrugged off his jacket as he moved past the narrow stairs and old worn couch toward his kitchen, dropping it onto the small table before turning to the cupboard.  He opened it to find a couple half empty bottles of whiskey and gin, and he reached for the whiskey mindlessly, grabbing a rocks glass to boot.

He poured out half a glass, and took a swig from the bottle for good measure.  It burned like hell going down, his eyes watering.

Drink in hand, Dean moved back to the kitchen table, dropping into the wooden chair.  It rocked a little, one leg shorter than the others.  He should fix that.  He tried not to think about Castiel, or Gordon, or his job, but the guy got him riled up.  Castiel didn’t know a damn thing about him, and the accusation that he didn’t care fucking stung. 

Dean took another sip from his glass, reaching for his jacket and pulling it close.  He rifled through it for a second before he came up empty.

“What the fuck,” Dean muttered, pulling out a few gum wrappers and spare change from the otherwise empty pockets.  “What the _fuck_.”

The design he’d taken from his desk was gone.   

Dean buried his face in his hands, cursing again under his breath.  Fuck, like it really mattered this point.  It was probably better that it was gone.  He sure as hell didn’t need it.  Dean finished off the rest of his drink, barely pausing for a breath, and set the empty glass in the center of the table.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter Warnings:** Alcohol Use

The static of impending rain ran through the air.  The smell of it was damp and charged.  It made Dean’s toes curl, a slow prickle marking its way up the back of his neck, his hair standing on end.  When it finally broke midday, the rain pounding down on the thick sheet glass windows, Dean let his own apprehension break with it.

Dean sat back in his seat, watching distractedly as Castiel paced the office, lit dully with grayed out natural light.  His long, slender fingers played at the hem of his black suit jacket when he stood idle.  A nervous tic, maybe.  

Grudgingly, Dean had to admit that Castiel, despite his other less appealing characteristics, was good at his job.  He was the ideal beta. He was order and carefully controlled emotions.  Even his frustration was quiet, a cold burning thing where Dean’s flared like the summer heat. 

Castiel had a bit of a nauseating love affair with his spreadsheets and the office was at least marginally more organized with his intervention.  The department had completed two major projects on or ahead of schedule which, honestly, was fucking unheard of.  It was the _people_ Castiel didn’t seem to get, the fact that they couldn’t always conform perfectly to his needs, that sometimes he had to be flexible.  That he was speaking to humans and not machines.  

It definitely didn’t make it any easier to work alongside him, but one-on-one contact happened rarely enough that Dean could sort of brush it off.   Personally, he half assumed Castiel was avoiding him.  He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.  He wasn’t sure why it registered at all.

“You think he could loom any more?” Charlie muttered, her elbows braced on the back of Dean’s chair.  “It’s like he doesn’t trust us to do our jobs.”  Dean leaned into her, his head propped back on her forearms.  She stared down at him with a cocked eyebrow.

“Worried he’s gonna get you for playing Warcraft at your desk?” Dean grinned.  He could taste her amusement, a saccharine tang between his teeth.  She scoffed at him, her hair whipping over his face as she turned.

“Screw you, that was one time and I get more work done between instances than you do working overtime.  I earn my keep.” Charlie winked, and Dean snorted.  “Besides, no one plays Warcraft anymore, ‘redshirt’.”  

“Yeah, alright nerd,” Dean smiled, reaching up to muss her hair.  

Charlie made a frustrated noise and pushed at his hand.  Backing away from the chair, she ran her fingers through Dean’s cropped hair in return, sticking it up in odd angles.  It kept the messy shape she gave it, the product he used obviously conspiring to aid Charlie in making him look as unkempt as possible.  Artistically unkempt, though, not like Castiel who always looked like he’d just rolled out of bed, cowlicks and all.

“Seriously, dude, your staring is getting creepy,” Charlie said, her voice teasing.

“Not staring,” Dean muttered.  “Observing.”

Just as he said the words, Castiel turned toward the two of them, his eyes narrowed in that all too familiar way.  Charlie reached over his shoulder for a copy of the report she’d probably come over to get in the first place and was gone before Dean could turn to warn her off.  He ran a hand through his hair, looking back toward the new stack of crash reports he hadn’t even gotten around to rifling through yet.  

He had maybe half a minute to collect himself before Castiel was standing behind him, his presence as charged and unrelenting as the impending spring rain.  Dean was still adjusting to the nature of his scent, but he could sense the shift, the way Castiel’s walls, always up, somehow thickened around him, defensive.

“The parts for the 5.0 model haven’t come in yet.  You assured me a week ago that you’d put in the order.”

 “I uh, yeah I did,” Dean sighed, licking his lips and turning in his seat to look over at Castiel.  The man’s posture never softened, arms always down stiffly at his sides.  He looked at Dean with reproach, slight condescension.  “Look, the parts from last time were pretty unreliable; we’ve had a few too many of them give out on us.  I figure we could wait the extra day or two and not skimp out on quality.”

“And you didn’t think to let me know you were making this change?” Castiel pressed.  

“I didn’t actually think it’d be a big deal, Victor knew about the problem and the cost difference for the parts was basically negligible.  I figured you’d appreciate me lookin’ out for quality.  Making sure this shit works the best it can is kind of my _job_.”

Castiel exhaled stiffly, like that was somehow a point of contention.  “I didn’t allot for the delay.  We have a deadline to meet,” he said, staring over at the empty desk beside them, papers sprawled out over the space.  His look of disapproval only deepened.

“Right,” Dean said, his tone clipped.  “I don’t know what you want me to do about it now, though.  The parts will be in Thursday at the latest.”

Castiel stared down at him, his expression on edge, eyes intensely focused.

“Don’t presume to make these decisions on your own again,” Castiel told him with cold finality.  

Dean pressed his mouth into a thin line, nodding with a curt little jerk of his head, pretty sure his own frustration was rolling off him in waves.  He didn’t need to make it worse by opening his big mouth.  Without another word, Castiel turned to leave, and Dean let out a slow, steadying breath.  Silently, he turned back to his computer, forcing himself to focus on the sound of the rain.  Fuck the rest.

\--

By the time Dean was preparing to leave the rainfall hadn’t abated, and neither had his frustration.  If anything his mood had only soured, and he collected his things with jerky movements, his shoulders stiff with tension.  

Castiel hadn’t left it at that one exchange, prodding him off and on about other impending deadlines and reports that he’d only gotten half a damn day ago and so understandably hadn’t been able to deal with just yet.  Something Castiel seemed oblivious to.  He was immovable.  Dean got that his schedules were important but he didn’t leave any room for human limitation.  Didn’t have the patience for it.

Dean’s jaw hurt from how much he’d ground his teeth, his mouth acrid with the taste of metal.  

He didn’t like feeling this way, like his aggression was a barely contained thing, scratching at the walls.  Like he was every stereotypical alpha jerk who couldn’t fucking comprehend the meaning of control, couldn’t reign in their own impulses at the cost of everyone around them.  Alphas like Gordon who felt the world owed them something, like they had a right.

Dean let his shoulders slump, his briefcase heavy in his hand as he made his way down the stairwell, the scent of damp and dust thick in the enclosed space.  He let it wrap him up, lost himself in external sensation.  Outside the rain fell in sheets over the dirty sidewalk.  Dean snapped open his umbrella as he pushed his way out of the building and looked in the direction of his car.  

Immediately, he saw a few things.  Pieces of a picture.  He saw a taxi, parked and waiting at the curb, driver tapping along to a beat Dean could only catch snatches of over the white noise of the rain.  He saw familiar tan coat, a figure hunched over, hand outstretched and palm up toward a woman curled against the side of the building, dressed in too many ratty layers.  Her meager basket of belongings was nestled beside her on the street.

Castiel’s expression was… as unguarded as Dean had ever seen it.  Castiel looked at the woman with something that was less pity and more a tentative understanding, a fragile sort of empathy.  The woman, cheeks flushed pink, smiled at Castiel, reaching toward his outstretched hand.  Instead of merely taking whatever Castiel offered, she pressed their palms together, speaking earnestly.  Too far and too washed out from the downpour for Dean to hear her properly.  Castiel watched her attentively, though, soaked to the bone, his hair plastered to his forehead in dark curls.  His lips twitched in a smile, and something in Dean shifted.  Because Castiel didn’t smile.

The Castiel that Dean knew didn’t smile.

Castiel closed his other hand over hers, folding them together, a small movement that looked like an attempt to comfort.  The taxi driver gave two aborted honks of his car horn before Castiel finally turned, nodding, and when he released the woman’s hand she had what Dean was sure was a small wad of cash.  Dean could make out the words of thanks on her trembling lips, and Castiel’s small returning smile.  

Dean’s chest felt uncomfortably tight as he watched Castiel turn toward to taxi, walking up to the open passenger window to speak to the driver.  He made no move to enter the vehicle, and after a few moments he merely pulled away, his expression guarded again, watching as the taxi backed out from the curb and drove down the street to disappear around a corner.

It was easy enough to put the pieces together, the money he’d given away and the taxi he hadn’t taken, but something in Dean rebelled weakly against it.  It didn’t mesh with what he thought he knew.  What he’d wanted to believe.   Castiel had been, since they’d met, this unyielding, stoic creature, someone who didn’t understand, someone who existed in masks and built up walls, in calculations and duty.  This Castiel was… vulnerable.  Human.  

Castiel stood at the edge of the sidewalk for a minute, his clothes stuck fast to his skin, and wildly Dean wondered about what it’d be like to peel off those layers.  Figure out what the hell else he was missing here.  But then, as if in some sort of divine retribution, Castiel finally looked over at him.  His blue eyes narrowed, his expression hard and unforgiving.  Water clung to his hair, fell in rivulets over the swell of his cheekbones, trapped between his lips.  

There was no give, no vulnerability, not for Dean.

Dean just stared back, trying and likely failing to guard his own expression.  His shitty attempts at fighting down whatever guilt and confusion had started festering there.  Castiel didn’t waver, though, only looking at him a moment longer before turning to walk down the street in the pouring goddamn rain in the opposite direction of the nearest bus stop.  Somehow, Dean didn’t think he’d be taking the train.

Fuck, he should go after him.  Offer him a ride.  He shouldn’t have to walk home in this kind of weather.  The stupid jerk didn’t even have an umbrella.  

Dean pressed the heel of his palm against his eye and rubbed, huffing out a breath of air.  Instead of taking the turn toward his car, Dean found himself walking toward the woman still huddled up against the side of the building, her hand clutched around the small wad of cash Castiel had given her.

When Dean got close, he nearly did a full stop, his muscles tensing at the sudden barrage of sensation that set his teeth on edge.  The rain had washed it out from a distance, but this close it was unmistakable.  The deep flush of her cheeks, the sweetness of her scent, the salt of sweat and fever.   This woman was an omega in heat.  She was clearly sick with it.

Dean steeled himself, moving very slowly to kneel at her feet, keeping a few paces of distance between their bodies.  He ignored the way his face warmed, the slight prickling of his fingertips.  She watched him with wide, sunken grey-blue eyes, the scent of fear washing over him along with everything else, nearly overwhelming him.  She’d be a beauty, he realized, if she weren’t so thin, skin too pale, high cheekbones and dark circles framing her lidded eyes.

“I’m not gonna try anything,” Dean told her, trying to keep his voice as level as he could manage.  “I swear.”  

Dean looked her over, her thin hands were dirty and she was clearly shaking, either from the cold, not having proper food, or from the fever.  Or some combination of the three.  The money Castiel had given her was probably enough to feed her, but it wouldn’t matter much if some shithead alpha caught scent and thought to take something that wasn’t given.

Dean felt himself physically bristle at the thought, an instinctual, protective response.  He reached slowly to his back pocket with the hand not holding the umbrella, pulling out his worn leather wallet and opening it clumsily.  He didn’t have much, he didn’t really carry cash, but he might have enough to pay for a couple nights in a shitty motel.  Somewhere she wouldn’t be so exposed.

Because the cold rain was cruel, but people were crueler.

Dean pulled out everything he had, maybe seventy bucks, and handed it to her.  He turned his face, eyes trained down at her hands.  Dean didn’t really want to see whatever look she had on her face, thankful or otherwise.  He might have passed her by without a thought if it hadn’t been for Castiel.  Homeless weren’t exactly rare in the city.  You get used to bad shit, get used to taking the closest turn, eyes dead set in the other direction.  You pretend not to care long enough that you actually lose the capacity for it.

“Get yourself someplace safe,” Dean told her gruffly, relaxing a little as she pulled the money from his hand.  It was slow, tentative, but the scent of fear was replaced with something softer.  Something Dean didn’t need to think too deeply about, but it did calm him marginally.  He didn’t want her to think he was a threat, despite what he was.  “Someplace warm if you can.”

“Are you friends?” the woman asked in a thick accent that Dean couldn’t place.  Something Slavic, harsh.  “You and the other man?  You are both so kind, I do not deserve.  No one has been this kind. ”

Dean didn’t know how to answer that, but something in him wished he could say yes.  Instead, Dean handed her his umbrella.

“Take this, and stay warm,” Dean said before he stood up, the rain hitting his face anew and quickly drenching his clothes.  He turned before she could say anything more, walking silently back in the direction of his car.

That night Dean dreamt of smoke, metal and blood, and woke up alone.

\--

In the days following, Dean only nodded compliantly when Castiel reminded him of deadlines, of budgets, of shit that still needed to get done, shit he wasn’t making fast enough progress on.  The sudden lack of fight seemed to leave the other man a little nonplussed.  Castiel came by with his defenses up only to realize it wasn’t necessary.  His tone turned softer, more tentative.  He couldn’t seem to keep that fire lit up without someone on the other end stoking it.

Dean wouldn’t admit out loud that he was trying to fix shit with Castiel, but he was.  

Dean didn’t spend a lot of time in the lab anymore.  He worked for a salary so staying extra hours for manual labor seemed a waste of time.  Somehow, though, he found himself settling down around six on a Friday evening in front of the box of the new parts he’d ordered and a half torn apart engine, his hands slightly greased and working deftly to put it back together.  

“What are you doing?” a familiar voice asked somewhere behind him.  It was low and tired, no hint of condescension, just honest curiosity.  Dean thumbed a chrome bolt, testing it unnecessarily just to give him something to do with his hands.

 “What’s it look like I’m doin’?” Dean muttered, “I already lost us half a week, remember?  I want this baby ready for testing before Monday if I can manage it.”  

There was a small pause before he heard Castiel sigh behind him, a light rustle of clothes.  The sound echoed in the empty, open space, bouncing off the high ceilings.  Dean turned in time to see Castiel shrugging off his trenchcoat and suit jacket, folding them together messily and setting them on the concrete floor beside his briefcase.  

His hands were steady as he rolled up the sleeves of his white button up revealing his warm, olive skin, and forearms corded with lean muscle.    Dean cocked an eyebrow at him, but Castiel didn’t respond other than to come crouch beside him.   This close Dean could feel the warmth radiating off him in soft waves.

“How can I help?” Castiel asked, his slender, dexterous fingers trailing along the polished chrome.  Dean watched them with a focused intensity.  He didn’t have small hands by any means, but they were almost delicate.

“You ever put an engine back together, man?”

“I did study auto engineering alongside my business degree,” Castiel told him with a slight edge.  “I think I can manage.”

Dean laughed at that, the indignation and defensiveness in his tone actually kind of endearing.  

“It’s not actually the same thing as having your hands on it, though,” Dean smiled.  “I mean I spent most of high school and college as a mechanic.  Put more engines back together than you’ve probably ever seen in your life.  Machines are finicky.  You can understand them inside and out but theory only gets you so far when you don’t know what tool to pick up.”

Dean closed his eyes.  He could almost feel the weight of summer heat across his back, his muscles sore from use, a grounding ache in his fingers.  Castiel must have sensed his nostalgia, how easily this tactile work came to him.  How it settled something in him.

“How did you end up at a desk job when you’re so obviously inclined to hands on work?”  Castiel asked.

“I want… I wanna _make_ shit, man.  I mean this is,” Dean took a breath, bracing himself at the edge of the machine, balanced in a crouch.  “Obviously I’m comfortable with this.  That’s not really an issue, but ever since I was a kid I loved cars.  I don’t wanna spend my life with hands buried in someone elses’ work.”  Dean chanced a glance at Castiel.   “I wanna be part of the process, if nothing else.  There’s more than one way to work with your hands.”

The other man’s expression was almost soft, curious.  Like he’d never encountered a creature quite like him before.  Dean wasn’t sure if it was more or less comfortable than the judgmental grimaces he was usually given.  Dean was suddenly aware that this was the first time they’d been so close without some kind of charged animosity between them.   Something else had settled down in its place, and it wasn’t bad.

He shook himself out and reached for a torque wrench, turning fully to Castiel, their knees brushing.  Without a word he pressed the tool against Castiel’s hand, waiting until he wrapped his fingers around the cool metal.

“You know how to torque the bolts?” Dean asked, watching as Castiel’s eyebrows raised in a silent question.  Then he nodded, turning to lean in over the machine.  Dean moved beside him, reaching out with grubby fingers against four bolts in turn, mapping them out.  “They should be fine.  I worked them earlier so the wrench is already on the setting you need, but go ahead and double check.  I was gonna do it anyway.  Wanna make sure she’s in top condition, right?”

“Right,” Castiel said, and Dean watched as his lips turned up in a shy little smile.  That was definitely something he could get used to seeing.

\--

 “You’re more relaxed than I’ve seen you in weeks,” Benny said gruffly, gripping a mug of beer in his thick hand, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

Dean sat across from Benny at a worn in booth at the old bar, his hands still reeking of engine grease despite scrubbing them raw.  Maybe he’d just forgotten what it was like, the scent pressed into his skin, stuck beneath his nails.  The familiar ache in his joints.  It felt good, like cleansing.  Like something he hadn’t really had in a while.

There was something else there, too, something soft and sweet.  Clinging to the edges of his jacket, like they were still pressed together, arm to arm and knee to knee.  

“Yeah, well,” Dean finally answered, looking over at his friend.  “We got the 5.0 ready for tests on Monday so that’s one thing checked off the list.”

“We?”

“Yeah, man, Cas rolled up his sleeves and helped with the labor.”

Benny whistled, leaning back against the wooden panel between their booth and the one opposite them.  “ _Cas_ , huh?” he teased, emphasis on the shortened name.  Dean frowned, throwing back a swig of beer.  A dark brew, heavy and bitter.  “He know his way around an engine?”

“He’s not bad, alright?” Dean said, leaning across the table to take an onion ring off Benny’s plate.  He was fucking starving.

“Right, right.  Just gotta figure a straight-laced guy like that?  Nose buried in calculus books, getting into cars because his daddy owned a pretty red Porsche and wanted him to go to business school.  Probably not a whole lotta’ experience getting’ his hands dirty.”

“Maybe he’s never been elbow deep under the hood, but he’s not bad with his hands.”

Benny stared at him, his eyebrows raised.  Dean rolled his eyes and bit clean through the onion ring, teeth bared and lips slick with grease.

“Fine, no comment,” Benny hedged, lifting his hands in a mock surrender.  Dean shot him a look, watching as Benny finished off his drink.

“So’s he, uh, mentioned your application?” Benny asked.  “Still no word on mine but I imagine he’s lookin’ for people more into design.  I’m good where I am, truth be told.  Not that I’d mind the opportunity.”  Benny laughed, half a low growl.  “Won’t hear me complainin’ either way.”

“What?” Dean paused, watching Benny’s face.  “The hell are you talking about?   What application?”

“You kiddin’ me?” Benny answered, his expression suddenly serious.  “For the big project.  I know you were itchin’ for it.  Don’t tell me you didn’t apply?”

“I… shit.  No, man, no one ever told me,” Dean paused, a foul twisting in his stomach.  “How did you hear about it?”

“Novak sent out an email to the entire damn department about taking applications a week after he started work.  You really had no idea?”

Dean stared, his fingernails pressed hard to the polished wooden table.

“No,” Dean finally said, his other hand unconsciously finding his beer.  He felt sick, angry.  Confused.  “No, I never heard shit.”  Slowly he inhaled, ignoring the scent of engine grease and _Castiel_ and focusing on the old wood and thick smoke and the sharp bite of alcohol.  Benny watched him carefully, apprehensively.  

“It’s a mistake,” Benny supplied, only sounding half convinced.

“No, it fucking wasn’t,” Dean spat, throwing back half is drink it one go, his eyes watering. 

He tried to burn away his disappointment with beer, and then whiskey, tried to tell himself he wouldn’t have fucking had a chance even if he’d tried.   His mind just supplied him with memories of Cas, that stupid smile he’d been so pleased to get out of him, and all Dean felt was cold.

He shouldn’t be so fucking wrecked, should have realized something like this would happen.  He hadn’t even been holding out hope for the job, not really.  

Minutes passed, hours maybe, before Benny eventually intervened and cut him off.  The damage was pretty much done, anyway.  Dean couldn’t really see straight anymore, couldn’t do more than hand over his keys and let his friend wrap an arm around his waist and pull him out into the chill night air.

“Let’s get you home,” Benny grumbled, tugging him in the direction of his car.  “I’m drivin’.”

\--

Monday morning came too quickly.  

Dean felt stiff as he walked into the office, his head aching dully, suit jacket rumpled and shirt untucked.  He was determined to keep his mouth shut, spend the rest of his life avoiding the fucking situation if he could, but that all kind of went to shit when Castiel walked straight up to him, frowning and looking him up and down.  It might have been concern, or just condescension.  Dean wasn’t really sure he cared which.

“Dean?” Castiel asked, his voice low.  “Are you feeling poorly?”

“What do you care?” Dean growled, backing away.  Castiel’s arm bent at the elbow, fist clenching aimlessly in midair at his aborted attempt to grab Dean’s sleeve.

“I care,” Castiel said, his frown deepening.  Dean wanted to throw it back in his face, but he stopped himself.  Barely.

“I’m just tired, bad night.  I’ll be fine after I get some coffee in me.” Dean said, frowning.  “I’ve got a lot of work to do.” Without waiting for a response, he turned to make his way to the other end of the office, trying to ignore Castiel staring after him.  He could feel it, though.  Boring into the back of his head, the sting of needles against his skin. 

Charlie looked at him questioningly from her desk, but Dean shrugged her off and buried himself in his work.  He wanted to get through as many of those shitty crash reports as possible, the ones Castiel kept bothering him about.  The less they had to talk about, the better, in his opinion.  It worked for a while, his anger shoved aside, his head aching only dully.  A steady thrum. 

A few hours and a few dozen reports in, though, Dean got a reply email from Castiel asking him to come to his office.Dean pressed his face against the palm of his hand, breathing slowly through his teeth.  Fuck.

Dean pushed himself out of his chair, making enough abrupt noise that for a second all eyes were trained on him.  He ignored them, stalking around the periphery to the side office where Castiel worked.  Castiel was sitting calmly at his desk when he entered, his chin propped on his hand, dark hair wilder than ever.  He looked up at Dean slowly, his blue eyes soft and annoyingly concerned.  

This would be a hell of a lot easier if they could just go back to fucking hating each other.   The fact that Castiel was looking at him like a person kind of made the whole situation hurt ten times worse.

“Dean, I’ve been going through your reports,” Castiel said tentatively, reaching toward a small stack and holding them out for Dean’s inspection.  “They’re… incorrect.  Not all, but enough that I went through the whole stack to double check.”

Dean thought he was going to be sick.

“This is not your normal level of work.  Are you sure you’re not ill?  You can do these from home if you’re so determined to make progress today.”  Castiel frowned, pulling his hand back as Dean took the papers, tired eyes scanning their contents.  Dean scowled.  He’d made rudimentary errors.  It was fucking embarrassing.

“I told you I’m _fine_.”  Dean said, eyes still fixed on the page.  “I just screwed up, I’ll fix it.  I don’t want to be sent home like some misbehaving kid.”

“Dean, that's not what this is.  Please.  If there’s a problem we need to discuss –”

“Just.  Stop,” Dean interrupted, his jaw tight.  "Alright?  I don't need this.  Not from you."  Castiel stared blankly up at him as Dean turned to leave, the air too thick, the walls pressed in too close.  He heard Castiel pushing himself out of his seat, papers shifting.

"Wait," Castiel said.  

"Fuck," Dean muttered, hands balled into fists so tight his fingernails dug into his palms.  He paused, long enough to hear Castiel inhale.  Dean probably reeked of aggression.  He didn’t know if he felt bad about it.  "You really want to know what my problem is?” Dean asked, his voice hard.  “You.  You are my fucking problem.”

“Excuse me?” Castiel asked, a note of pleading there that felt like a fist in his gut.  Dean couldn’t even look at him, didn’t want to see whatever face he was pulling.  Couldn’t take it.

"It's true you sent out application info to every engineer in the department, right?  Everyone except me.  I told you how much I wanted it and you still fucking _cut me out_."

"What?  Yes, I.. let me _explain_ –"

“No," Dean snapped, turning to face him.  "I deserved the same chance as everyone else, alright?” Castiel’s blue eyes were wide, shoulders stiff and hands in tight fists.  “It wasn’t enough that you immediately fucking assumed I didn’t give a shit about my job, but then you punish me for it by not even letting me _try_ , not even giving me a chance to apply for a job I’ve been dreaming about since…” Dean took a deep, shaking breath, his palms aching from the pressure of his nails.  “You know what?  I shouldn’t even be surprised.”

“ _Listen_ to me,” Castiel said his voice harder, more insistent.

“You know, it pisses me off even more because I was starting to fucking _like_ you,” Dean growled, taking a step forward, watching Castiel’s body language tighten.  Like he was shutting everything out, shutting himself off.  “I thought maybe I’d just gotten you _wrong_.” Dean continued, his stupid fucking voice breaking.  “Like maybe I’d jumped to conclusions, too.  But you turned out to be the emotionless, unforgiving, petty _bastard_ I thought you were.”  Dean took a deep breath, his hands trembling.  He was angry, and _hurt_.  He couldn’t seem to rein it in, something feral and aggressive clawing its way up his throat.  “You’re cold.  Even your _scent_ is cold, so stop pretending like you give a shit.  I don’t fucking care anymore.”  

Dean waited for a response, for Castiel to come back at him with _something_.  Get the fight out of him that he wanted.  

In the end he couldn’t even have that.

“Are you done?” Castiel asked, his voice quiet.

“Yeah,” Dean said, breathless and wrecked.  Trying to ignore how shitty he felt.  “Yeah we’re done.”

**\--**

Dean hunched over the board room desk, his elbows braced against the cool, polished wood.   He could hardly focus, his blood too hot in his veins alongside a stinging guilt and a complete refusal to acknowledge it.  Most of him wanted to be angry.  Anger was easy.  Simple. 

Charlie set a hand open palm across his shoulder blade, a grounding weight.  It was clear he was distressed, but she knew him well enough not to ask questions.   Not here of all places.  His coworkers crowded in around them, setting down as Victor stalked to the head of the room, back pressed against the wall and rifling through a thin folder. 

“Alright guys, I want to make this quick and painless,” Victor said, shutting the folder and tossing it to the center of the table.  “Emails are going out near the end of the day, but I wanted to make sure a few of you got the info in person.  Novak’s made his decisions about the design and engineering team for his big project.”

Dean slumped back in his seat.  Great.  As if his day couldn’t get any worse.  This was like salt in the fucking wound.  Where was he, anyway?  If this was his grand fucking unveiling he should be here to make the announcement himself.  Dean tried not to take another useless glance around the room, but he couldn’t help himself.

Victor read off a list of names.  Ash getting a spot didn’t surprise him.  The guy was too damn smart for this company, and Castiel would’ve been an idiot not to grab him the second he put in his application.  There was quiet Samandriel.  That was an odd choice, but the kid was definitely diligent and enthusiastic.  Charlie, of fucking course.  Her and Ash would have it out, but Dean didn’t doubt they’d turn it into a wheat-fueled hovercar given enough fucking leeway.

“Dean,” Victor said.  Dean looked up, startled.

“What?”

“Dean Winchester.  That’s your name, right?”  Victor very visibly kept himself from rolling his eyes.  “You’re on the team.  You’re down for heading the chassis design, but I’m sure you can help with other shit if you can get a word in edgewise.”

“But,” Dean said, pushing himself back from the desk and turning in his seat till he was facing Victor directly.  “I didn’t apply?  This has gotta be a mistake.”  His heart was beating too fast, it made him feel lightheaded.

“What, you don’t want it?” Victor asked, crossing his arms, eyebrow cocked.

“Of course I fucking want it I just…”

“Novak came into my office second day he was working here and gave me your name.  You’ve been slated for this position for a month,” Victor told him, staring him down.  “You’re telling me he never even mentioned it?”

Dean felt like he couldn’t breathe, the fire in his veins going cold.  “Where is he?”

“What, Novak?  Couldn’t be here.  Said he was sick, left right before the meeting started up,” he answered.  Dean didn’t even have to think about it, had already pushed himself out of his chair, heading for the door.  “Hey, whoa, where the hell do you think you’re going?”

“Bathroom,” Dean muttered, throwing open the door and stalking into the open office space.  Victor was probably glaring after him, but he didn’t give a shit.  He walked until he hit the hallway, and then he was sprinting, pushing through the heavy stairwell door and taking two stairs at a time to the first level.  The lab space stunk of dust and heated metal, the air thick and cloying.  He headed past it for the double doors that led out onto the street. 

His heart was beating too fast.  He was probably already too fucking late, but he needed to find him.   Needed to…

The stink of tobacco was thick in the air, and Dean jerked around, staring down the sidewalk to see Castiel pressed against the building, cigarette between his fingers.  He looked tired, slumped over.  His hands stiff and fidgeting.  Dean had to keep himself from flat out running toward him. 

“Cas?” Dean asked when he got close, watching Castiel’s brow furrow, staring angrily out at the street.  He took another drag of his cigarette.  It seemed like a really fucking inappropriate time for it to occur to Dean how goddamn gorgeous Castiel was, his soft lips and angular jaw.  His bright, intense eyes.  God, he was fucking everything up.  “Cas, look at me.”

“What do you want?” Castiel said, his tone cold and biting, but quiet.

“I fucked up.  I shouldn’t have said that to you,” Dean said, taking a deep breath.  “I was angry… I thought…”

“I know what you thought,” Castiel said, finally turning his head to look at him, fixing that glare directly on him.

“I didn’t mean it.”

“No, that’s a lie.  You meant every word,” Castiel said.  “You only waited to say it out loud when you thought I’d given you a good reason.” 

“I’m sorry, Cas,” Dean said, not without a hint of pleading in his voice. 

“Why?  Why should you be?” Castiel spat, his half smoked cigarette tossed to the pavement.  “Because you got what you wanted?”

“No,” Dean insisted, taking another step forward only for Castiel to flinch away from him, his expression betraying hurt for the first time.  “Why, though?  Why the hell’d you give it to _me_?”

Castiel stared at him for a moment before he shoved his hand into the deep pocket of his tan trenchcoat, rifling around a moment before pulling out a neatly folded piece of paper, the edge of a pencil sketch and inked in notes.  Dean recognized it immediately, and his stomach twisted up.  It was his design, the one he thought he’d lost.  One of his favorites. 

“I was wrong when we met,” Castiel said, thrusting the paper into Dean’s open palm.  “You are good.  There’s passion in your work, and that’s rare.  Despite the fact that you’re one of the most frustrating men I’ve ever met, I believed you deserved it.”

Dean couldn’t take his eyes off the paper in his hands, his thumb tracing the worn edges almost reverently.  Had he kept his design this whole time?  Just carried it around in his pocket like it was something special?  Like it... like _he_ was worth something.

“I don’t understand, man.  Why the hell didn’t you just tell me?”

“You hated me!” Castiel shouted, and Dean could feel the pressing warmth of his body they were so close, Castiel's breath on his face.  “You made it very, _very_ clear that you could hardly stand my presence much less _talk_ to me.”  Dean stared at Castiel, all righteous indignation, wild and fevered and perfect. 

“You think I’m the only one who made rash judgments when we met?” Castiel continued.  “You’re infuriating.  Childish and _arrogant_.”  Dean moved without thinking, one hand reaching up to cup Castiel’s lightly stubbled jaw, the other twisted into the fabric of his coat, paper crumpled in his palm.  “You,” Castiel faltered, his breathing hard. 

Dean leaned in, silencing whatever Castiel wanted to say with a careful, but insistent, press of lips.

There was a moment where Dean was free to taste him, to focus on the softness of his mouth, the quiet, sweet scent of his skin.  He hated himself for how wrong he’d been.  There was nothing cold about it.  Just closed off, hesitant.  Dean knew too well that nothing about Castiel screamed mate, screamed sex or need or touch.  Nothing about Castiel made any sense to him at all.  He just realized, with a dull sort of confusion, that he wanted to be close to him.  Didn’t want it to end.

He didn’t even have time to let the thought scare him.

Castiel didn’t kiss him back.  He stiffened under Dean before his hands were braced on his shoulders, shoving at him.  Dean backed away quickly, his face hot, chest tight and heart pounding a hard rhythm against his ribcage.

“Cas,” Dean breathed, barely having time to flinch before Castiel threw his fist against his jaw.  Pain split at the point of impact, hot and sharp, his vision blurring as he reached up to clutch at his throbbing face.

“Don’t touch me again,” Castiel spat, breathing hard as he turned to stalk off down the sidewalk.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter Warnings:** Sexual Harassment (Verbal), Physical Violence, Very Brief Dean/Other

Dean tasted blood.

Dean tried not to focus on the sound of Castiel leaving, the scrape of his shoes against the pavement.  The inside of his cheek throbbed from where he’d bitten through the soft flesh, his jaw and neck aching as well, but he couldn’t actually _feel_ the pain.  Nothing but the heavy weight of knowing he was injured.  That he’d taken a hit.  His body knew it, too, thrumming with adrenaline, sick with the need to act.  Alpha instinct kicking in. 

His feet shifted.   His hands closed in fists.  His blood was acidic, burning through his veins and sharp against his tongue. 

Dean held himself steady, back pressed against brick wall of the office building.  He focused on the train screaming by, the sound of cars, their puttering engines and the screech of brakes.  The scent of dirty metal and brick and exhaust, Castiel’s burned down cigarette butt on the pavement, up against the heel of his boot.  He was so hyper-aware of it that he could taste it alongside the blood.  It was vile.  Everything was too fucking loud, too vivid.

He had to rein himself in, had to calm the hell down.  When he focused on what had happened, though, what he’d done, what Castiel must think of him… fuck.

He was so goddamn confused.

Dean took a deep, deliberate breath, his heart hammering in his throat and behind his eyes.  He tugged a hand through his hair, pulling too hard.  He forced himself to feel it.  To narrow in.  It took another thirty seconds, maybe a minute, before the adrenaline rush leveled.  His jaw ached, but he welcomed it. 

He wanted, honestly, to run after Cas.  Apologize.  Make shit right, or at least _better_.  Instead he turned to walk back into the building.

\--

“What the hell happened to you?” Victor asked, his tone somewhere between frustration and concern.  Mostly frustration.  Victor was always at some level of ‘completely fucking done’ with Dean.  “You get into a fight over a urinal or somethin’?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” Dean growled.  His mouth tasted like copper and salt.  His hands were still shaking.

“Too damn bad.  Gone thirty minutes only to come back with blood between your teeth?  This isn’t some run down garage on south side.  I’m not dealing with this shit.”

“I know,” Dean muttered, his shoulders heavy.

Victor huffed, grabbing his sleeve and pulling him out of the path of a couple of his coworkers.  They didn’t try to hide their stares.  He probably stunk like he’d been in a full-on brawl, like he was bleeding testosterone and adrenaline.  He probably smelled like _alpha_.

That wouldn’t have bothered him a few years back.  Wearing your aggression or your desire openly was how you got attention, got respect.  It was what people expected.  At least it was in skin bars and at college parties where all anyone wanted to do was get lost in baser instinct.  In the real world alpha aggression and posturing was more a hindrance than anything else.  

Not just that, it was dangerous. 

“Please don’t tell me there’s a guy in worse shape than you in the bathroom,” Victor mumbled.

“Nah, I got rid of the body.  No cleanup.”

Victor glared at him while Dean fixed him with a toothy grin, his eyes wide. 

“Winchester, I swear to God…”

“Kidding!  Jesus,” Dean amended, shoving his hands in his pockets. 

“Tell me now, you need to go home?” Victor asked, his voice low.  “I’ll forward your email so you can get some work done, but how about you try and sort out whatever shit is going on here.  The place won’t burn down without you.”

Dean huffed out a laugh, considering it.  He thought of Castiel stalking off down a dirty sidewalk as he’d clutched at his face, trying to bite down that goddamn fire in him.  The one that screamed for blood and teeth and skin and _ecstacy_.  Fuck, yeah he should go home.   Drink the edge off, sleep as long as he could.  Forget what a fucking ridiculous screw up he was.

Dean nodded, Victor slapping him on the back and pushing him toward his desk.

“Get your shit and get out.  Clean yourself up.”

Dean collected his briefcase, keeping as wide a berth as he could around his friends and coworkers.  Charlie just frowned at him from her desk, wrinkling her nose and glancing down at the bruise on his jaw in a way that clearly said ‘we are talking about this later’.  Benny intercepted him in the lobby, though, sweat and grease clinging to his labor-rough skin.

“You’re havin’ a hell of a day,” Benny grinned, slapping a palm against the curve of his neck and shoulder, examining the bruise.  “Anyone I need to take out?”

Dean actually laughed at that, shrugging off his friend’s hand. 

“That, uh, definitely ain’t necessary,” Dean said.  He tongued the wound in his cheek.  It still had a metallic bite to it even though the bleeding had stopped. 

“You deserve it?” Benny asked, his voice so low Dean could hardly make it out over the sounds of the lab, metal slapped against concrete and running engines.  Dean looked at him for a moment before he shrugged, gaze training down at his boots against the dirty floor.

“Yeah, probably.”

“You want to tell me what happened?” Benny pushed.  Dean licked his lips, inhaling slowly.  Then he shrugged again, because he didn’t really have much left to lose. 

“I kissed him,” Dean said, almost conversationally.

“What?  Kissed who?”

“Cas.”

Benny blinked at him, frowning. 

“I gave him shit for the application thing,” Dean explained.  “Fucking went off on the guy.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Benny said, because yeah, that pretty much covered it.  Benny had been in the meeting, he knew what had happened.

“When I realized… I went to find him and… shit I fucked up so bad.  He was yelling at me, he was _pissed_ , and I just.  I didn’t even fucking think about it.  I just wanted to kiss him.”  Dean had to laugh.  There wasn’t any fucking other response to have.  “He pushed me off and punched me in the jaw.”

“You’re an idiot,” Benny supplied, just in case Dean hadn’t already been thinking it.  Benny was a good friend like that.

“I know.”

“Right,” Benny said, sighing.  He ran a massive hand through his short, dark hair.  There was amusement in his eyes even if he kept his expression neutral.  “Well, get yourself together.  Don’t do anything else stupid tonight,” Benny finally continued.  “Not that you’ll listen to me.”

“Wouldn’t be me if I did,” Dean grinned, winking playfully.  Benny just rolled his eyes, glaring down at him like a disapproving mother hen.  “I’ll try, though.  Just for you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Benny sighed.  “How’s about get some rest?  You stink.”

Dean laughed, pushing past Benny and raising a hand in dismissal. 

When he walked out of the building, his arm dropped like a heavy weight.  He shoved a hand in his pocket and made his way around to his Impala, parked in the tiny public lot half a block down.  His briefcase knocked against his thigh.   Dean didn’t really want to go home, but it was early.  The bars would be dead except for the few regulars without goddamn day jobs that didn’t care how it looked to be drunk by three in the afternoon. 

Good company, then.

Dean went home instead.  He finished rewriting the reports he’d fucked up earlier, pausing only briefly when faced with Castiel’s email address.   The shape of his name in black letters on the sceen.  Dean was good at compartmentalizing.  So, so good at it.  Had to be, really.  There was a slowly emptying beer at his elbow on the stained wooden coffee table, and he knocked at it distractedly. 

He licked his lips, opened another report.  When he took another sip of his beer he realized it’d gone grossly lukewarm.

Eventually the sun set and Dean started thinking maybe he wasn’t actually that good at compartmentalizing.  That maybe he’d been repeating the kiss in his head over and over for the past six hours, biting at his lips in a vague attempt to get another taste.  At some point he’d started fucking pining over Castiel.

Dean closed his laptop, pushed himself off the couch, and headed for the front door.

\--

The skin bar was a fucking sensory overload. 

The music was low and heavy like the sound of blood pumping through his veins, throbbing in his fingertips.  Dean headed half-blind through a haze of smoke and barely covered bodies, scenting the air freely, slick and heat and virility. 

It was different here.   Control was a part of everyday life, reigning in that baser part of himself, that animal trying to rip its way out.  The part that wanted nothing more than to fight or to fuck, the part that could smell the sweetness of someone’s skin and want a taste of it.  The part that wanted to do what it was fucking built for.  To just give in.   

There was no pandering here, no pretending.  Nothing else fucking mattered, not his past, none of the things he’d done, none of his bullshit problems or his doubt or his frustration.  He could be an alpha here and not a damn thing else. 

The heat was hiked up, the scent of sweat slick skin like a drug.  It clung to the too-thick air, raking against the skin of his teeth, lighting that fire in him.  There were too many bodies, not enough clothing.  The wooden floors expanding, breathing in the damp.  Dean stripped himself of his over shirt, tossed it to a table.  He’d probably be back for it later, but he didn’t care much if he saw it again.  It was too constricting now.

He was already starting to sweat, his skin thrumming with adrenaline and need.  Need to touch, to bury his face against someone’s neck.  Feel their body against his own.

He made his way to the bar, ordered a drink from a pretty redheaded beta girl.  Only betas could work in places like this, omegas and alphas too volatile.  Betas weren’t immune to scents, but their animals were quieter, tamer.  More easily ignored or reigned in. 

She grinned at him at him as she set down to shot glass, pouring the whiskey out with a practiced flourish, a casually flirty gesture.  She was gorgeous, but her interest was put on.  It didn’t matter much. 

He liked men, he liked the way they smelled, the angles of their bodies.  He liked women, too, hell yeah.  How could he not?  As an alpha he was built to be more susceptible to women’s scents, mating compatibility and his body’s engrained desire to breed, and he’d definitely slept with a fair share of omega and beta beauties.   

He’d always liked men just as much, though.  Tonight he wanted just that, wanted corded muscle and rough stubble.

Dean threw back the shot and set the glass back down, motioning for another.  She shot him a toothy smile and refilled the glass, Dean taking it down as easily as the first.  Once he was done, his cheeks warmed and his muscles relaxing, he paid her and moved back through the crowd. 

He lost himself, surrounded by bodies, moving to a thrumming, heavy beat.  He didn’t really dance.  He hadn’t done this in a long fucking time.  It came back to him, though, the whiskey loosening him, making him bold.  He was less drunk off that then the barrage of scent, saccharine and cloying, an onslaught of sensation.  His teeth were bared, his skin hot and slick with sweat.  His body ached for touch. 

He hardly thought about Castiel at all.  He hardly thought about anything.

Somehow he found himself pressed up against a body, warm and insistent, hands finding their way around the back of his neck.  He groaned, a thick noise pulled up from the center of his chest.  He grabbed the man’s slim hips, loving the way their bodies locked together, the way his dark, wild hair brushed against the underside of his chin.  The omega smelled amazing, his scent harsh, demanding, but still sweet with arousal.  Something in Dean twisted.  The feeling tugged at him, pleased at being wanted. 

Dean leaned in, the omega baring his neck in offering, and tasted him.  His heart was pounding, his hips moving more insistently, desperate for friction. 

“Taste so good,” Dean growled against his neck, nipping at the soft, sensitive skin teasingly.  He pulled the omega closer until they were connected from thigh to chest, sweat sticking them together in all the places bare skin touched.

“Fuck yeah,” the man groaned as Dean latched his mouth against his pulse point, sucking a small bruise into his pale skin.  “Wanna fuck me, alpha?  Fill me up?”

Something in Dean shut off at the words, that voice.  Before he knew what was happening Dean was pulling back to look at him.  It was hard to bite down his need, the way his body was screaming yes.  Begging to let go of some of that energy he’d kept trapped under his skin all day.  He did pull away, though.  He had a mind.  He wasn’t a slave to impulse. 

The man had soft eyes, a pale, washed out blue.  His jaw was slightly rounded and shaved smooth, his shoulders a little too narrow.  Still, he looked so much like Castiel it made Dean feel ill.

What the hell was he doing?  Was he really that fucking desperate?

“I can’t do this,” Dean said, his voice pitched low and gravely.  “I’m sorry.”

The man looked at him, confused and obviously a little offended.  Dean had been the one to seek him out between sweating, writhing bodies, to pull him close.  To mark him.  Fuck.  Dean couldn’t, though.  He didn’t even wait for a response, turning and heading back through the sea of bodies for the exit.

\--

Castiel wouldn’t look at him. 

The inscrutable beta did his job, he went over reports and deadlines and all that shit, but if he’d been avoiding Dean before, now he seemed to be redoubling his efforts.  Dean tried to smile at him, be as fucking pleasant as he could.  He even brushed off some amazing opportunities to crack a joke at Castiel’s stiff, professional wording.

Heh, stiff. 

Castiel walked up to his desk, his eyes carefully trained on a spot just left of his face. 

Castiel was a lot of things, but subtle wasn’t one of them.  Dean found it unfairly endearing, just like a lot of things about him that he’d found frustrating less than a fucking week ago.  It was less a gradual shift in perception than it was a steamroller with a sign reading ‘you have a ridiculous unrequited crush you stupid mouthy bastard’.

The loud slap of papers on his desk broke him out of his self-pity fest.  He looked down at the pile, and then back up at Castiel who was still pointedly not meeting his eyes.  Dean watched him carefully, stared at the lines under his vibrant, deep blue eyes that framed his sharp cheekbones, catching the low light.  There was also a flush to his cheeks that wasn’t normal, and Dean realized his scent was a little sharper as well. 

“I need these finished by Monday,” Castiel said rigidly.  “Ask Charlie for assistance if the workload is too heavy, but I expect these in my mailbox on time.”

“Okay,” Dean said, frowning a little.  Castiel might be pissed at him, but he hadn’t given Dean more than he could handle.  That was something.  Castiel just nodded, turning away from his desk to leave.  “Wait, Cas,” Dean said, his heart hammering in his throat.  He had to stop himself from reaching out and grabbing the sleeve of his suit jacket.  “I need to talk to you.”

“Is this work related?” Castiel asked, turning a little back in his direction.

“No,” Dean admitted, “But, Cas –“

“If it’s not work related then I don’t have time for it.  I have too much to do.”

Dean nodded, pressing his lips together and trying to ignore the stupid sinking feeling in his gut.  He watched until Castiel disappeared into his office, ignoring the questioning glances of his coworkers.  Yeah, probably not the best time.  But it wasn’t like Cas would talk to him outside of the office.  He was running out of options. 

Halfway through the day Dean saw Castiel leave his office again, notably more pale than he’d been that morning.  There was definitely a redness to his cheeks, a thin sheen of sweat on his skin.  He held himself with the same carefulness that he always did, but his arm was protectively braced against his waist.  He turned out into the hallway and headed in the direction of the bathroom.

Barely a minute passed before Dean pushed himself out of his chair, walking carefully around the outside of the room.  He really… really shouldn’t follow him.  Something protective in him flared, though, worry over Castiel overpowering any concern he might have had for himself.  About potentially fucking things up between even more, digging himself a deeper grave.

Fuck, whatever.

Dean pushed out into the hallway and made his way down to the bathroom.  The door was slightly ajar, caught on the cap of a medicine bottle.  Dean leaned down and picked it up, shouldering his way quietly inside.  He scented the air, twisting at the vague hint of distress and sweat. 

Castiel was hunched over the sink, his fingers shaking as he gripped at the porcelain.  His breathing was careful, but slightly labored.  His eyes were tight shut, hair damp around his ears and forehead.  A small droplet caught on his full lips. 

“Cas?” Dean tried quietly.  Castiel tensed, opening his eyes and staring over at him.  There wasn’t any anger in his look, just… worry.  Confusion.  The scent of distress thickened.  “Man, are you sick?  Do I need to call someone?”

Castiel licked his lips, staring at him.  Meeting his eyes his eyes for the first time in half a week.  He didn’t answer, just watched Dean carefully, his chest shaking with the effort of keeping his breathing steady.  Dean wanted to help him, calm him down.  Do something.  But he couldn’t get near him.  Not now.

“No,” Castiel said weakly, glancing down at the counter.  “I’m fine, I just…”  Dean’s eyes followed the movement, catching sight of a pill bottle.  It was thinner than most, a yellow instead of bright orange you’d usually get from the pharmacy.   It had two separate compartment spaces, one full of little white pills, the other full of darker, slightly larger pills.  The cap that held them both closed felt heavy in Dean’s hand.

Dean didn’t have to ask.  He knew what they were.  Omega suppressants.

Dean looked back at Castiel.  Castiel who wasn’t a beta.  Not like he’d ever confirmed it.  Dean had just assumed.  Castiel guarded his expression, but his eyes gave him away.  He looked scared, cornered.

“Hey,” Dean said, raising a hand in what he hoped was a placating gesture.  “I won’t tell anyone, alright?” He watched Castiel’s shoulders slump a little, his hands uncurling.  “I’m sorry.  I was just worried.  You looked like hell, man.  You sure you don’t need a doctor?”

Castiel shook his head silently, his brow furrowed.  Dean’s chest felt a little tight at the familiar expression.  He knew that shit was hard for omegas, especially omega men, even though he also knew Victor and most of the people he worked with wouldn’t care.  It was more progressive in the cities, open prejudice was about as well received as straight up assault.  Still, there were bad fucking people out there who didn’t give two fucks about what was well received.

If Castiel didn’t want anyone knowing, Dean would make sure to keep it that way.  It wasn’t anyone’s business but his own.

Dean walked slowly up to Castiel, holding out the little white cap.  Up close Dean could pick out the sweetened scent, something easily missed if he hadn’t been expecting it.  It made a shiver run down his spine.  Different, but still Cas.  Castiel took the cap and stared at him, the edge of his mouth twitching. 

Dean gave him a small smile before he turned, leaving Castiel alone.

\--

“You’re not staying late tonight,” Charlie said, leaning her weight on Dean’s shoulder, one arm draped lazily over him.  She watching the screen, tapping against his chest to the rhythm of his typing.  “Dean,” she pressed.  “Come on.”

“You know, most omegas don’t get this feelsy with alphas unless they’ve got a crush.  Sendin’ me all the wrong signals here,” Dean grinned, feeling her body tense in annoyance.

“Ew,” Charlie said, leaning in and kissing him on the cheek.  “I love you, but that’s gross.”

“Just sayin’,” Dean laughed, pushing himself back from where he’d been hunched over his computer.  He was trying to get the reports for Castiel done, but he was less than a quarter of the way through them and he only had two more full days to work.  He might have to fold and ask Charlie for help after all.

Cas had planned this humiliation.  He was goddamn certain of it.

“Seriously, Dean,” Charlie said, her voice serious.  “Get up.  We’re going.  Everyone else is already out of here.  You know, living their lives.  Enjoying what little time we’ve got away from this place.”

“I do things.”

“Let’s do more things,” she said, standing up and tugging on his sleeve.  “I want to go for a drink.  That place you took me last time.”

Dean grinned up at her, waggling his eyebrows.  The last time they’d been to The Roadhouse Charlie had developed a bit of a crush.  One Dean didn’t feel bad about exploiting.  At least in theory.   Before he could actually say shit Charlie reached out and pressed her finger against the yellowing bruise on his jaw.  A dull, throbbing pain shot down his neck, and he grimaced.

“You still haven’t explained this,” she said, avoiding the other topic completely.  Dean rolled his eyes and swatted her hand away, moving to push himself out of his chair.

“Fine,” Dean said. “Walk and talk.  I’m starving.”

Charlie bounced up and down on the balls of her feet, trying her damndest to be as earnest and annoying as possible.  Dean just ignored her, collecting his things.  She didn’t press him for information until they were out of the building, the sky already dark, cars howling noisily past.  The sidewalk was crowded, too, people ready to get started on their Friday night, short skirts and high heels and booze on their breath.

They’d walk to the bar.  No need to move his car, it’d probably be a fucking miracle to find a closer parking space if the clubbers were already out, anyway.  Charlie linked their arms together, tugging him forward. 

“So why’d Cas hit you?” Charlie asked.  Dean nearly choked, staring down at her.  “Don’t pretend like it wasn’t him.  I’m not blind.  You two are about as subtle as a bullet to the skull, you know that?  So tell me what happened.”

“He hit me because I kissed him.”

“Whoa,” Charlie said, missing a step.  They stopped in the center of the sidewalk, some guy muttering at their heels and walking around.  “What?”

“Yeah.  I’ll go down in history for having the worst fucking romantic timing ever.”

“Oh my God.  I knew it!  You’ve been making moon eyes at him like a lonely Starfleet captain gazing at his Vulcan first officer,” she laughed, shoving him toward the curb.  Dean scowled and shoved back, looking down to see a wide grin splitting her face.

“What about you, huh?” Dean teased, trying to ignore the lump in his throat.  The hot embarrassment rising in his cheeks.  “Don’t pretend you’re taking me to a bar outta the goodness of your tiny heart.  You’ve got your eyes set on a certain blonde –“

“Don’t,” Charlie said, holding tighter to his arm, walking forward again.  Dean stared down, a mess of red hair. “What if she’s not… you know.  What if it’s not her thing?  I mean it’s easy enough to find omega girls at skin bars looking for something different and exciting, but Jo… she’s…”

“Different?” Dean supplied, looking fondly down at the girl on his arm.

“Yeah,” Charlie said solemnly, her head tilting sideways to rest on Dean’s shoulder.  “Special.”

“Damnit,” Dean muttered, tugging her around a turn as he knocked his forehead against the crown of her head.  Her hair had a sweet, honey scent.  It made him feel safe and protective at the same time.  The way Sam’s scent used to make him feel when they were kids.  “Now I can’t give you shit.”

Charlie laughed at that, and Dean smiled.

“I’ve known Jo and Ellen since I was a kid,” Dean said conversationally.  “Family had contact with them for way longer.  I can tell you that Jo won’t judge you, alright?  Even if she doesn’t feel the same.”  Dean immediately regretted his choice of words, Charlie slumping against him, holding tight like she was trying to steal some of his strength.  Strength he barely had.  Charlie was a million times stronger than he was. 

“She’ll love you,” he told her.

“You sure?”

“I love you,” Dean smiled, kissing the top of her head.  She relaxed, humming complacently.  Together they rounded another corner, the bar in sight.

\--

The Roadhouse was fairly unassuming from the outside, just a red neon sign, modest wooden siding and cherry double doors.  Once they pushed their way inside, though, a myriad of familiar scents spun their way around them.  All warmth, greasy food and beer soaked into the wooden countertops, seeped into the floorboards.  Veneer and felt and lemon scented cleaner.   This place was one of those hidden jewels.  Most of the patrons were regulars, but they were friendly to newcomers. 

Dean loved it.  Didn’t visit as often as he would have liked.  It reminded him of home, which was both good and bad. 

Ellen was at the bar and she raised a hand in greeting.  She also shot him a fondly frustrated look, clearly upset at how long it’d been since he’d last popped in to visit.  Charlie was already wandering away from him, probably hoping to catch a glimpse of Jo.  She should be around.  She usually was on Friday nights. 

Dean walked up to the bar, leaving Charlie to the prowl, and Ellen slid him a mug of the beer on tap.  He didn’t care as much for the lighter brew, but he wouldn’t complain for the discount she offered with it.  Family prices and all that.  Dean had long since stopped trying to insist on paying full price.  Ellen took it as a personal slight.

“Finally decided to show your face, hmm?” Ellen teased as he took a sip.  It wasn’t as bad as he’d been expecting.  Beer was beer, after all.  He wasn’t exactly a fucking snob about it.  “How’s life been treating you?”

“The usual,” Dean coughed, setting down the mug.  “I got this opportunity at work, though.”

“Yeah?  You wanna tell me about it?” Ellen asked, looking over his shoulder at someone behind him.  Her eyes shifted in recognition, nodding a bit before looking back at Dean.  “Hold on, let me take care of him real quick.  He always gets the same thing.”  She smiled and turned, grabbing a mug and holding it under the tap, an even lighter brew than his own spouting out when she tugged the little black lever.  It foamed at the brim, pouring over into the drain as she filled the glass full.

Dean felt a body beside him, a familiar scent that made something in him jump in anticipation.  He looked to his side to see Castiel, hands braced on the bar and watching Ellen carefully.  He pointedly didn’t look at Dean, but there was no way he hadn’t noticed him. 

Ellen sidled up before Dean could say a word, sliding the drink into Castiel’s hand and smiling like they were old friends. 

“That all for you?” she asked.  Castiel smiled at her in response, his expression warm. 

“Yes.  Thank you, Ellen.”

Castiel turned toward an open booth, not even sparing Dean a glance as he walked away.  Dean just watched him silently as he sat down, pulling a small, worn paperback from a large pocket in his coat.  Dean recognized the book as _Something Wicked This Way Comes_ , and he grinned a bit.  Cas was into Bradbury.  That wasn’t a bad choice.  Dean hadn’t read that particular book, but he’d read _Fahrenheit 451_ in high school and liked it a lot.

“You know him?” Ellen asked, attempting to pull Dean away from his fixed gaze.  Cas’ hands curled around the pages in a way that was both delicate and greedy.  “He’s been coming in every Friday for a month or so.  Doesn’t say much.”

“Yeah.  We work together,” Dean explained, picking up his beer and already moving toward Castiel.  “I’ll be back.”

“Take your time,” Ellen called back, amusement clear in her voice.

Dean approached the booth quietly, watching Castiel’s eyebrows raise slightly at his closeness.  Dean smiled a bit as Castiel turned another page, his eyes finally flickering up to look at him. 

“Can I sit down?” Dean asked.  Castiel stared at him for a moment, obviously a little confused, but then he nodded.  Dean set his mug on the heavy wooden table and slid in across from Castiel.  “So how’d you find this place?”

“It’s on my walk home.  I ended up coming in here one Friday for a drink and I enjoyed the atmosphere.  It’s kind of quiet, even when it’s crowded,” Castiel explained, pausing to lick his lips.  Dean followed the movement with his eyes.  Castiel’s lips looked soft but chapped, like he worried them too often for the skin to properly heal.  “Ellen and her daughter are pleasant as well.”

“Yeah they are,” Dean smiled, reaching for his drink.  He breathed in the aroma before taking another sip, and it seemed like it was Castiel’s turn to stare.  “I’ve uh, I knew em’ before I even came to Chicago.  Old family friends, believe it or not.  Jo used to chase me around my backyard when I was a kid.  Kicked my ass a couple of times, too.”  Dean took another sip of his drink while he watched Castiel’s blue eyes widen in interest.  “Don’t tell her I told you that, though.  She’ll get a big head.”

Castiel just nodded, his lips twitching a little.  Dean sort of hoped it’d turn into a smile.  He was greedy and wanted one for himself.

“So, Bradbury, huh?” Dean  said, glancing down at the book in Castiel’s hands.  It was obviously well-loved, the edges of the pages rubbed soft and worn from being turned too many times.  The binding didn’t have creased lines, so Castiel must have treated it with as much care as he could, never opening it too wide.  The only marks it had were the ones that would be unavoidable.

“Mmm,” Castiel hummed.  “I love his prose.”

“I’ve never read that one,” Dean supplied, smiling at Castiel’s shoulders slumping a little as the tension left him.  He was obviously still wary about Dean, but he wasn’t threatened.  Wasn’t asking him to leave.  Dean would take what he could.   “Is it good?”

Castiel actually grinned a little crookedly at that, setting the book down and flipping ahead a few pages, his eyes hungrily scanning the text.  Dean had fucking butterflies in his stomach. He had a schoolboy crush and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.  That smile would probably be the end of him.

“A stranger is shot in the street, you hardly move to help,” Castiel started, his voice rhythmic with the obvious pace of someone reading out loud.  “But if, half an hour before, you spent just ten minutes with the fellow and knew a little about him and his family, you might just jump in front of his killer and try to stop it. Really knowing is good.”  Castiel looked up at him, reciting the last lines as if he’d repeated them to himself a thousand times.  “Not knowing, or refusing to know is bad, or amoral, at least. You can’t act if you don’t know.”

Dean watched him, their gazes latching onto one another, a charged heat passing between them.

“It’s kind of relevant, right?” Dean asked, smiling a little at Castiel’s look of understanding.  “To the two of us.  How we keep fucking up because we’re not actually trying to get to know each other.”  Castiel grinned again, softer this time, less amusement and more careful pleasure.  Like he’d been hoping for that exact response.

“It’s not a secret,” Castiel said, closing his book and setting it aside.

“Huh?”

“I mean… not exactly.  Everyone assumes I’m a beta because of the effects of the suppressants, and I’m happy to let them.”  Dean stared at him, watched his mouth press into a line.  He was frowning, but Dean was sure it wasn’t directed at him this time.  “It’s easier to be that.  I prefer it.”

“Why?” Dean asked, realizing it was a stupid question the second the word left his mouth.

“My family is nothing but alphas and betas.  When I presented as omega my mother was… ‘horrified’ might be a good word for it.  A woman presenting as an omega would have been acceptable, she might have adjusted.  As for me… she wanted to forget what I was.”

Dean frowned, watching Castiel’s eyes.  They were hard and unforgiving, a very practiced mask.

“My heat was nothing but a purposeless hindrance to her life, a harsh reminder that she’d somehow breeded a bitch,” Castiel said, the venom he put into the words falling heavily on Dean.  Like they were something repeated, something he’d been forced to hear too many times.

“That’s fucked up, Cas,” Dean said earnestly, leaning across the table, bracing himself with his fingernails scraping against the polished wood.  “That’s fucked up, old school, extremist bull that operates under the idea that our only purpose is to breed.  It’s _shit_ ,” Dean growled, because just the thought of it made him want to rip someone apart.  “It was your body, not hers.”

Castiel stared at him, his eyes wide and searching.  Dean slowly sat back in his seat, running a hand through his hair.  He hated the idea of someone having to be ashamed of something they had absolutely no fucking control over.

“Dean –“

A crash made them both jump.  They turned to see a large alpha looming over Charlie, his teeth bared and leering down at her as she tried to back away, ankle catching the overturned chair.  She stumbled a bit.  Anger and protectiveness made Dean grip harder at the wood, his nails pressing crescent-shaped indents into the veneer.

“C’mon, a sweet little omega like you should be grateful for the offer.  I’ll fill you up so good, baby.  Let me take you home,” he said, his voice husky and low. Predatory.

“Not interested,” Charlie snapped back, shoving at the man.  His hungry expression changed to one of frustration, his lips arching in a low growl, the color high in his cheeks from too many drinks.  Dean was up and out of his chair before the man could take another step, but Castiel was faster, pushing past Dean and stalking up to the man, his hands in fists and radiating cold aggression.

Where the hell was Ellen?

“I believe the lady said no,” Castiel growled, stepping between them.  He bore down on the huge alpha, holding his ground despite being half a foot shorter.  “I think you need to leave.  Now.”

“Who the fuck is gonna make me?” the guy bit back, leering down at Castiel with the same reckless abandon he’d done with Charlie.  “You think you can take me?  A bitch like you?” Castiel winced at the word, and Dean wanted nothing more than to rip the guy’s head from his shoulders.  “You might smell like a beta, but I bet you’d get all wet for me, get on your hands and knees and beg me to fuck you full.”

Castiel just frowned, reaching up and grabbing his shoulders, his hands white knuckled.  He stared up at him, blinking slowly, and for one wild, insane moment Dean thought Castiel was going to fucking kiss him. Castiel kneed him in the balls instead.  Hard.  The man’s face reddened, falling back and clutching at himself, cursing and spitting, the air suddenly thick with the scent of his anger and distress.  He raised his shaking hand to strike back, but Dean shot forward, his own fist raised and blood pumping hard and loud in his ears. 

Dean's fist caught the edge of the guy’s mouth, a sickening crack.  Pain shot up his arm at the impact.

“You don’t fucking touch him,” Dean spat, shaking out his throbbing hand.  “You touch any of them I’ll rip your fucking throat out with my teeth.  You hear me?”  Dean breathed hard, his vision narrowing. He watched the man stumble back, the stench of rage and blood from his split lip raking against him.  A fucking onslaught of sharply directed aggression.

“Screw you,” the man growled back, pressed against the table, obviously in pain.  “That ugly omega whore doesn’t know what she’s missing.”

The sound of a shotgun being cocked echoed through the bar, Dean turning to see Jo pointing it at the alpha, her eyes cold.

“Get the hell out,” Jo threatened, aiming the heavy black gun down between the man’s legs and grinning.  “Or I’ll blow your fucking balls off.”

The man paled, nearly tripping to get out of the bar as quickly as fucking possible.

Dean took a breath, calming himself before he walked back over to Charlie who'd moved to the other end of the bar, away from the fight. Jo was there first. She wrapped an arm around her shoulder, face pressed against Charlie's neck in a hug. The unused shotgun hung limply down from her free hand, pointed at the floor.  Charlie was okay, a little rattled, but she seemed pretty damn content with Jo so close.

“Thanks Dean,” Charlie said, obviously still a little shaken.  “Where’d Cas go?”

“Huh?” Dean looked around to Cas’ booth, the book gone, a few bills stuck under his mug.  He turned when he heard the door of the bar open, Castiel’s tan coat whipping behind him as he pushed out into the windy night air.  Dean turned back to Charlie to find her watching after the door as well.

“Go,” Charlie said.  “I can take care of myself.”

Dean nodded, moving to follow Cas out of the bar. 

He hadn’t made it too far. Dean called out to him, his voice a little worn and muffled by the sound of cars passing by.  Cas turned at the noise, though, his brow furrowed, hands down at his sides.  Dean ran up to him, looking him up and down.  “You okay, man?”  Dean asked once they were close.  Castiel’s eyes narrowed a little, his head tipped to the side in curiosity.  “You just ran off.  I just… that was awesome, by the way.  Fucking nailed that guy right in –“

Castiel leaned forward, fisting his hands in the collar of his jacket, and silenced him with a kiss.  It took Dean by so much surprise that he didn’t even close his eyes.  Castiel pulled away just as quickly, Dean’s lips parted as he struggled to breathe.  He didn’t even want to chance moving, chance running Cas off again.

He probably couldn’t move even if he wanted to.

Dean swallowed weakly. Castiel moved his hands from the collar of his shirt, fingertips trailing over his neck before cupping his face carefully.   He stared unflinchingly at Dean’s jaw. Dean felt his thumb brush over the yellowing bruise, still sensitive.  The contact made him shiver, but not from pain.  His heart was going to burst out of his fucking chest.

“I should not have hit you,” Castiel said, his voice low and pinched. 

“Probably shouldn’t’ve kissed you when you were yellin’ at me,” Dean shrugged, trying to keep his voice from wavering.  Castiel watched him with such careful, focused intensity and Dean had no idea what to do with it.  No one looked at him like that.  “It’s okay.  I’m good.”

“Alright,” Castiel said, licking his lips.  Dean just stared down at him, transfixed. 

Castiel leaned in slowly this time, his thumbs still tracing careful lines against Dean’s cheekbones.  Dean held his breath as Castiel pressed his lips to the bruise, soft enough that it didn’t hurt.  Just thrummed, warmed, sent a happy excitement to pool in his stomach.  Castiel marked his way around the curve of his jaw until he found the edge of Dean’s mouth, taking a small breath before pressing their lips together. 

The kiss was nothing like any kiss he’d had before.  Castiel was careful, methodical.  Like he was trying to understand Dean through the shape of his mouth.  There wasn’t really any heat, any intention for more than just this.  Dean realized that he liked it, liked being able to take in his soft scent, to taste him openly.  To build that heat deliberately, not just succumb to it.

There was something novel about it, about everything that Castiel was.

They kissed slowly, carefully, breaking apart just to find each other again.  Just touches of their lips, the gentle pull of skin stuck together.  Dean reached out hesitantly, finding the hem of his shirt, pulling him a little closer.  He ran his fingers over Castiel’s hips, carefully mapping him out. Cas' skin was warm.

He pulled away sooner than Dean wanted, pressing their foreheads together.  Momentarily, they stood in silence, breathing the same air.  Dean was suddenly more aware of where they were, the people brushing past them, the sound of cars and the train and shouts, the smell of exhaust and concrete.

“I have to go,” Castiel said, finally letting his hands drop from Dean’s face.  Gradually they moved apart, Dean’s arms useless at his sides.  Castiel stared down the street, a strange expression marking his features.  Like he was trying to figure something out.  “Goodnight, Dean.”

“Night, Cas,” Dean said.  He felt stunned, his heart still hammering wildly, watching until Castiel turned a corner. The taste of him still clung to his lips.

\--

Dean stared at his cellphone.  His back was pressed against the edge of the couch, his knees pulled up to his chest.  He hadn’t bothered turning on any of the lights, so the only things lighting the room were the streetlamps and the glow from the tiny screen on his phone.

His thumb was poised over the call button, checking the familiar number for the third or fourth time.

“Hey Sammy,” Dean said out loud to no one.  He ran his thumb over the worn call button again, knowing he wouldn’t press it. He was too much of a coward to actually _talk_ to his brother. To face all that shit he'd been running from. “Hope college is good.  Bet you’re top of the class, you nerd.”  He closed his eyes, imagining his brother’s face turned down in a bitchy scowl. 

“Something good happened tonight,” Dean continued.  “I think so, anyway, Cas is fucking impossible to read sometimes.  But, you know.  Seemed good.  Kinda freaked out how fucking happy I am, actually.”  Dean let himself smile at that.  He didn’t really do… whatever this was.  Maybe he could, though.   This couldn’t be one of those things where you fuck and never call back.  Dean wasn’t sure he’d want that even if it were a viable option. 

He sat in silence for a moment, his eyelids heavy with exhaustion.

“Oh, shit,” Dean said, suddenly remembering.  “I get to help design a car, Sam.“  He laughed, wishing he could hear his brother’s surprise.  

“Anyway, uh.  Really hope you’re doing okay.  Tell mom,” Dean paused, staring down at the number.  Numbers he’d etched into his brain, typed out more times than he could count.  Even without his brother there to hear the words, they still wanted to stay coiled up inside him. 

“Tell Mom I love her, tell her I’m sorry.”

Dean stared at the phone a few more seconds before he flipped it closed.  In the dark of his living room, he pushed himself off the ground and headed upstairs to bed.


	5. Chapter 5

Dean braced himself at the edge of his bathroom counter.  The imprint of his palms collected water and his reflection stared at him with wide, green eyes.  His mother’s eyes, too pretty, set and framed by the chiseled angles of his cheekbones.  They were heavy lidded.  Bloodshot from lack of sleep.  His hair was damp, water marking its way in cooling stripes down the sides of his face.  He blinked, reaching up and pushing the short strands from his forehead.  

He took a deep breath, the air humid and warm, a damp fog pressing down on his skin.

Getting ready for work took longer than usual.  Dean picked out a pale green shirt he knew was particularly flattering, spread product through his clean hair, shaved his jaw smooth where he normally kept it a little rough with stubble.  The bruise was nearly gone, but he couldn’t hide the dark circles under his eyes.  He’d gotten four hours of sleep, but not consecutively.  Which was fine.  Wasn’t like he hadn’t had worse.

The sun was up by the time he left the house, Metallica blaring through the Impala’s speakers as he pulled out from the curb.  His mood was already lighter by the time he walked through the front lobby of his work, less focused on the last couple torrential nights of sleep and more so on the growing ball of anxious excitement in the pit of his stomach.  It basically took all he had not to sprint up the stairs to the third floor.  

The hall was already full of people when he entered it, little foam cups of steaming coffee in their hands, voices quiet.  Dean made his way past them to his department’s offices, raising a hand in greeting to Benny before turning straight to Cas’ closed office door.  

Dean pressed his hands down the sides of his suit jacket, worrying his bottom lip and taking a breath before approaching.  After a couple seconds he knocked lightly on the wooden panel.  

“Come in,” Cas said from the other side of the door, his voice tired and distracted.  The sound of it soothed something in Dean, like a hand placed at the base of his neck and dragged down over the curve of his spine.  He opened the door slowly to find Cas sitting there staring at his computer screen.  His chin rested against the back of his hand, his hair stuck messily in all directions and his eyes bleary and unfocused.  Dean smiled, crossing his arms in front of his chest and approaching the desk.

“Forget your coffee, Cas?  You look beat.”

“I’ve had two cups already,” Cas grumbled.  He narrowed his eyes and looked up at him, focused on Dean in a way he hadn’t been on his work.  “I hate mornings.  Sometimes I wish I’d chosen a different profession just for the opportunity to actually enjoy them.  Or at least to have the option of not being conscious during them.”

“That why you’re always so pissy?” Dean grinned.  Cas’ lips twitched, his brow creasing in annoyance.

“No, you just manage to bring out the best in me,” he deadpanned, turning back to the computer and making a show of placing both hands on his keyboard.  His long fingers stretched, tendons twitching beneath smooth, tanned skin.  “I’m busy.  Did you have a reason for coming in here other than to antagonize me?”  

Dean laughed, not missing the way Cas’ lips curled up at the edges.  

What he _wanted_ was to kiss him again.  He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it all weekend.  It was even harder to ignore now that he was feet away from him, could taste him in the air, could let it curl up and settle down under his skin.  He could easily lean over the desk now.  Figure out what the hell this was, what they were.  If they were anything at all.  Cas’ eyebrows raised like he could hear the way Dean’s heart had sped up, like he knew exactly what he was thinking.

“Dean?”

“Yeah I just, uh.  I got those reports done.  Took me all fucking weekend but they’re in your inbox.  Just wanted to check and make sure they went through,” Dean explained, knowing it was a pretty flimsy reason to go in there and bug Cas this early in the fucking morning.  He could just wait for the inevitable response email, but where was the fun in that?  Cas cocked an eyebrow at him before nodding.

“Yes, I got them first thing.  Did you need Miss Bradbury’s help after all?”  Dean didn’t miss the smug undertone.  Cas could still fuck with him, even now.

“Nah, she’d kill me for ruining her weekend,” Dean said, leaning in and bracing his hands at the edge of Cas’ desk.  The pads of his fingers pressed to the polished wood.  They were closer now, Dean bowed over, their faces only a couple feet apart.  It still felt like miles.  “Couldn’t put that on her after Friday, anyway.  I’d feel like shit.”

“Right,” Cas said, suddenly somber.  “Is she doing alright?  I should have asked.”

“She’s fine as far as she’s told me.  She’s got a thick skin,” Dean smiled, feeling less settled about it than he’d like to pretend.  “Kinda doubt it’s the first time some asshole’s pulled somethin’ like this.  Wish I’d hit him harder for the shit he said.”  

It wasn't just what he’d said to Charlie, but to Cas, too.  It set his teeth on edge just thinking about it, lit that feral fire in him.  People shouldn't have to get used to jerk-offs who believed someone owed them sex just because they were built a certain way, designed to fit together like cogs in a machine.  Just because it was in their nature to crave touch and taste.  People weren’t just instinct trapped under skin and bone, though.  That wasn’t how it fucking worked.

Cas didn’t say anything, just nodded.  He got it.  

“I was uh… I was wonderin’ if you wanted to catch lunch with me today?” Dean asked, effectively derailing the conversation.  He stared down the line of Cas’ throat to the collar of his shirt, his mouth a little dry.  “I know this great place around the corner.  Some of the best burgers I’ve had since I moved here.”

Cas looked away from him, his fingers curled above his keyboard.  The scent in the air shifted just enough to catch Dean’s notice.  Cas controlled himself well, but Dean was starting to pick up on it.  Dean wasn’t sure what the shift meant, but along with the silence it made him nervous.  He kinda wished he hadn’t spent so much time working up the courage to do this.

“It doesn’t have to be burgers,” Dean told him, tilting his head to the side in an attempt to get Cas to look at him.

“It’s not that,” Cas said, voice a little clipped.  After a few seconds he turned back slowly and met Dean’s eyes.  He looked more apologetic than he should.  It did the opposite of calm Dean’s nerves.  “I bring my lunch to the office.  I don’t like wasting an hour out when I could be getting work done.”  Cas’ tone had taken on a cold edge.

Dean tried to smile even through the sting of what he knew was rejection.  The way his chest felt suddenly too tight, shoulders too heavy.  “You gotta relax sometime, man,” Dean tried with a thin laugh, standing up straight from where he’d been hunched over the desk.  He ran his fingers through his hair.  Cas just watched him, his mouth slightly parted.  “It’s not a big deal.  I just… ya know.  Figured it’d be fun.”   _Because you kissed me and I can’t stop fucking thinking about it._

“I’m sorry,” Cas said.  

For what it was worth, he did sound like he was seriously sorry.  Maybe he wanted to let Dean down gently.  Maybe he’d spent all weekend regretting the kiss.  He hadn’t really seemed that into it if Dean were being honest with himself, he’d been so fucking clinical.  But it had felt like...  like the way Cas looked at him sometimes.  Like he was important, or fascinating, or… something.  He couldn’t have read him that fucking wrong, could he?

He could, though.  He had before.

“Nah, whatever,” Dean grinned.  “I’ll uh… let you get to it.”  He turned back toward the door, running his hand over the back of his neck.  His body’s exhaustion was creeping up on him again, tension twisting in his muscles.  

“Dean,” Cas called out.  Dean turned to look at him, shoving his hands into the pockets of his slacks, fidgeting with the thin lining under his thumbs.  “I just... you’re alright?”  Cas looked mildly frustrated with himself, his brow pinched.  Mouth turned down.  Dean really didn’t want him to feel bad.  It was just a kiss.  He shouldn’t have expected more than that.

God, it just always fucking felt like they were playing this game with one another and neither of them had any idea what the rules were.

“Yeah,” Dean said, giving him a small smile.  Cas returned it with a little difficulty, lips pressed together, eyes soft.  Really didn’t do shit to distract him from how fucking hung up he was on the guy.  “See ya later, Cas,” Dean finished, turning to leave before Cas could stop him again.

\--

“You okay, dude?” Charlie asked.  She leaned over his shoulder and offered him her half-eaten cup of yogurt.    Dean shook his head, focusing on the screen.  He’d decided to skip lunch.  The lukewarm coffee by his keyboard was enough to keep him going.  He felt uncomfortable in his skin and wanted to get out of the office as soon as he could.  “You gotta eat something.”

“M’fine,” Dean said gruffly, batting at her hand.  The food smelled sickly sweet, he could taste it on the back of his tongue.  “Definitely not hungry enough to eat that shit.”

“Your loss,” Charlie said, trying to mask her disappointment while pulling back her hand.  “The hell is wrong with you that you don’t want food?  You always want food.”

“You trying to tell me somethin’?” Dean teased, looking back over his shoulder at her with a cocked eyebrow.  She glanced down pointedly to his stomach.  Alright.  Fucking unfair.  He was a slim guy, broad shouldered, yeah, but he wasn’t fucking overweight.  Maybe he had a little softness in his stomach, but that was normal.  It wasn’t like he was a goddamn athlete or some shit.  French fries were not a sin.

“Not at all,” Charlie replied with a smile, sticking a spoonful of yogurt between her lips.  The metal clacked against her teeth, something about the noise irritating him.  He grimaced.  “Not sleeping again?”  

Dean grunted noncommittally.  He’d gotten used to being woken up a couple times a week, the ghost scent of rust and blood and fear clawing at the back of his throat, but a whole weekend of restlessness was something he thought he’d moved past.  Wishful fucking thinking.

“It’s not Cas, is it?” Charlie said, leaning in closer so she could talk to him without anyone overhearing in the surrounding offices.  Not like there were many people around to hear in the first place.  “You two looked like you were working stuff out.”

“I can honestly say I’ve got no fucking idea on that front,” Dean said, turning back to his computer screen.  “What about Jo?  You two looked cozy when I left Friday night.”  Something like contentment radiated from Charlie at the words.  It settled Dean, too, whether he wanted it to or not.  “That good, huh?”

“She wants to hang out this weekend.  We’re going downtown to the Museum of Contemporary Art to see the Warhol and Marisol exhibit.”

“Seriously?  She’s into that?” Dean asked, turning fully this time and hooking his arm over the back of his chair.  Fuck, it’d been a while since he’d hung out with Jo one-on-one.  She’d tried to spend time with him when he’d moved here a few years back, but he hadn’t wanted reminders of home.  She was too connected to everything… with a past he’d been way too raw to deal with at the time.  Their relationship kind of petered out into… whatever they were now.  Old friends who waved at each other across a familiar bar.

“I think so?”  Charlie answered him, shrugging.  “She was the one who mentioned it.  I’m very into Warhol.  Maybe not his paintings, exactly.  I mean I get it, it’s all about taking the artist out of the equation, right?  He had this assembly line of people making art for him, stencils and machines to screen-print the same picture over and over again.  I mean it’s insane, but cool.  Have you ever seen his interviews?”

“No,” Dean said.

“He had this whole persona.  Very cool.  Hilarious, actually.”  Dean nodded and turned back to his computer screen.  He heard a door open and close, and he knew before he even looked up that it was Cas.  There was a way he walked, the way he shut a door behind himself, twisting the knob before the latch clicked.  Like every action was measured, deliberate.  Dean watched as he turned out of the office and into the hallway, a folder tucked beneath his arm.  “You need to talk to him.”

“Huh?” Dean asked.  “Warhol?”

“ _Castiel_ , Dean.  You need to talk to Cas,” Charlie said.  Dean stared back at her, confused.  “I have no fucking idea how you went from hating his guts to kissing him in the middle of a fight but it’s pretty obvious that there’s something going on with you two." Dean was grateful that most everyone was out for lunch because this was not shit he wanted the whole office talking about.  “Just talk to him.  You’re not a teenager so stop acting like it.”

“Yeah well, that’s great but you’ve got it wrong.  There’s nothing going on.”  Dean licked his lips.  He knew that the issue was way more grey than he wanted it to be.  “I don’t think Cas is interested.”

“Look, Cas might be Vulcan-levels of emotionally repressed but he’s definitely interested, alright?  People don’t look at people they’re ‘not interested in’ the way Castiel looks at you.”

“What?”

“Just talk to him.  And get some sleep.  Tea helps.”

Dean nodded as she turned and headed back to her own desk, strapping on a pair of bright pink headphones.

\--

It wasn’t until the end of the week that Dean took Charlie’s advice.

“The company wants a new four door sedan, so I’m looking at you to put forward a few separate designs for us to work on over the next few months,” Cas said, his tone even, a dry sense of detachment.  It seemed like he was doing this for no other reason than he had to.  “I sent an email, but we haven’t spoken about the project since your involvement was announced and I wanted to make sure you were aware.”  He stood a few feet away, hip pressed to the edge of desk to Dean’s right.  The pieces of a faulty lock lay strewn across the flat surface.

“How many is a few?” Dean asked, his mouth a little dry.  He tried to focus on the lock, but he couldn't.  Cas looked particularly disheveled, his hair limp and falling across his forehead.  His shirt was even untucked beneath his suit jacket.

“I’d like two or three if you can manage.  We want some variety of choice,” Cas said.  “I know it’s a lot in such a short span of time.”  He was avoiding Dean’s eyes.  It was the first time they’d really spoken since Monday morning, a week of fleeting glances and almost-conversations in the hallway.  Cas didn’t even seem pissed.  Just avoidant.

“I can manage it.  I’ll get started this weekend,” Dean said, frowning.  Cas nodded slowly, standing upright, arms down by his sides.  Dean watched his hands even as he turned to walk away.  “Cas,” Dean said, not sure what he was doing.  “Wait.”  Cas froze, but he didn't turn. Dean was sick of this, sick of pretending there wasn’t this huge, unspoken thing between them.  Even if it meant straight up rejection he had to fucking do something.  

Dean reached out, his fingers brushing the back of Cas’ hand.  He could sense the shift immediately.  The way Cas tensed, tried to close off, tried to pretend it didn’t affect him.

“Am I totally off base here, man?” Dean asked, low so they wouldn’t be overheard easily.  He traced Cas’ hand from the ridge of his knuckles to the back of his wrist in one careful motion.  The office was nearly cleared out for the day, but there were a couple of people still making their way around, typing at their computers or packing up to leave.  Dean was always one of the last.  “Did I fuck something up?”

“No,” Cas said immediately, his hand curling into a fist as he turned back to glance at Dean.  Then he sighed.  His hand pulled away from Dean’s as he headed back toward his office.  Dean pushed himself out from his desk chair and followed.  Cas left the door open, Dean slipping in and shutting it with a quiet click.  He could smell Cas’ apprehension.  A sharp, bitter shock, like slowly-building static.

“Cas you have got to talk to me.  I’m driving myself crazy over here just trying to figure out what the hell you’re thinking.”

“I don’t know, Dean,” Cas said, sounding more frustrated and more raw than he’d heard him since their last fight.  He seemed to realize it himself, pulling up straighter, shoulder’s back.    

“Do you think it was a mistake?”

“I don’t _know_ ,” Cas repeated emphatically.  Dean approached him carefully, bowing his head a little so he could look him directly in the eyes.  Cas tried to look at the wall, at the floor, anywhere but back at him, but Dean was fucking insistent.  “I am… really not good at… any of this.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Dean laughed quietly, reaching out to touch Cas’ wrist, closing it in his hand.  His thumb sat against his pulse, beating out a quick, nervous rhythm.  Cas had stopped backing up, a foot of free air between their bodies.  “Was it bad?” Dean asked, his vision narrowing in on Cas’ straight nose, his soft, pale lips.  “Kissing me.”

“No,” Cas admitted, tilting his head.  His heart didn’t slow, but his scent started to even out.  Dean leaned in just a little more, his hand pressed over the curve of Cas’ palm, finding spaces between his fingers.  He felt like a teenager.  He hadn’t just held someone’s hand in years.  “I shouldn’t have.  It was reckless.”

Dean laughed at that, his shoulders shaking.  Even as the words left his mouth, Cas’ fingers tightened around his.  Whatever he said, that was concrete.  That was real.

“You don’t like me, Cas?”  Dean asked, kind of afraid to know the answer.  Cas had half a million reasons to hate him, to not want him close.  Still, the look Cas gave him was sincerely confounded, his shoulders pulled back so he could look at Dean properly.

“Against all odds I find I like you very much.  You're very passionate,” Cas said, his tone hard like it frustrated him.  “That doesn’t mean this is a good idea.”

“Why?” Dean asked, rubbing his thumb over Cas’, heat gathering in the space between their palms.

“I don’t… I’m _difficult_ ,” Cas half-explained, like it somehow caused him physical pain.  “We work together.  I don’t do this.” Cas took a breath, his eyes meeting Dean’s with laser sharp focus.  “Why did you kiss me?”

Dean thought back to the design Cas had pulled out of his pocket, thrust back at him as evidence of his worth.  The folds careful, exact, and edges worn down from being handled too often.  Knowing Cas had looked at that design more than Dean had ever let himself look at it.  Just knowing Cas had seen something in him past his bullshit, past their stupid fucking arguments and it just… fucking… overwhelmed him.

Dean realized he’d leaned in, pressed his forehead to Cas’ temple, let himself breathe in the shallow, sweet scent of his skin.  He didn’t know what he wanted more, to push Cas against a wall and kiss the fucking breath out of him or just keep him close, like this, hand in hand and faces pressed together.  Like they had time.  Cas made him was to take his time.

 “I don’t know,” he lied.  Cas let out a short breath, his hand tightening again like he hoped the connection would give him the answers Dean wouldn’t.  “You walk home, right?”

 “Most days,” Cas answered, his voice a little worn.  He pulled back, Dean missing the feel of their faces pressed together as soon as it was gone.  “Why?”

“Let me give you a ride.”

“I don’t want –“

“I don’t have any ulterior motives, man,” Dean said, feeling Cas’ hand go slack in his.  He held on tighter to compensate.  “I just want to give you a ride.  You won’t go to lunch with me.  I’ll take the ten minutes chatting in my car over, you know, _nothing_.”

“You want to chat?”

“I want to spend time with you, yeah.”

“And that’s all you want?”

“Look Cas, whatever you’re afraid of, I’m not gonna push you into anything.  I’m not… I don’t do that.  I don’t want to do that,” Dean said, because what he _wanted_ wasn’t simple.  He wanted a lot of things.  “I just can’t stop fucking thinking about you.  It’s embarrassing.  And distracting.”  Cas stared up at him, his lips parted.  God fucking help him.  Dean took a harsh breath, leaning in and pressing his forehead to Cas’ again, their noses brushing.  He didn’t close the space.  Cas sighed, his shoulders dropping a little as the tension left him.

“Alright,” Cas said quietly, the warmth of his breath across Dean's mouth. “Fine, let me get my things.”

Dean smiled, his nose brushing against Cas’ one more time before pulling away.

\--

“Whoa!” Dean said, reaching across the seat to push Cas’ hand away from the dial for the radio. “Driver picks the music.”  Cas looked at him with a scowl that would fucking rival his brother’s.  He had to smile.  Dean kind of loved Cas in his car, loved the way his scent settled into the sun-warmed leather.  

“You’re not being very accommodating,” Cas frowned, leaning back in the seat and staring out the window like Dean had fucking struck him.  “You do realize that this music is older than you are, right?”

“Excuse the fuck outta me.  Just because I’m young doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate the classics,” Dean smiled, leaning in and turning up the volume.  It was Rush.  He loved Rush, and they weren’t _that_ old.  “The hell are you into?  Think you’ve got a more refined taste?  Has age made you wise?”  Cas glared over at him, his hands curling into the stiff fabric of his slacks.

“This was a mistake,” Cas groaned.  Dean just smiled, softer this time, and reached over.  He set his open hand on the back of Cas’, tracing the tops of his fingers.  Cas sighed, widening the spaces between his fingers so Dean could slot them together.  “You’re horrible.”

“Yeah, I know,” Dean said, turning a corner into open traffic.  “Thanks for comin’ anyway.”  

“Hmm,” Castiel hummed, tightening his fingers around Dean’s.  “Have you given much thought to what you’d like your design for the car to look like?”

“Yeah, I mean, sorta.  I’ve got a ton of ideas in my head.  Figured I’d sketch a few out when I got home, see what stuck.”

“Is that generally how you work?”

“Yeah.  I’ve uh… I’ve got this whole binder, actually.  You know, sketches and shit.  Little ideas.  Used to draw stuff in high school all the time and I never really stopped.”  Dean felt Cas’ thumb overlapping his own, rubbing small circles against his knuckle.  Fuck, he wanted to be closer to him.  The urge was so visceral he had trouble biting it down.  “I’m not… fucking qualified for this.  I don’t know why you picked me.  I don’t even know how to transfer this shit to a computer program.  I’m not a designer, Cas.”

“Charlie knows how to use the programs.  When the time comes you’ll work together,” Cas said logically, like this wasn’t any real concern to him.  “You think I made a mistake choosing you.  I didn’t.”

Cas was so fucking sure of himself that Dean wished he could just take it.  Believe that even if he didn’t have his shit under control, Cas might.  “I just figured if I was working on this project it’d be as an engineer.  Designing was like a fucking pipe dream,” Dean said, staring over at Cas as he slowed to a stop at a traffic light.  “Right at the next intersection?” Dean asked.

“Yes,” Cas said quietly.  “It isn’t too far.”

They drove in relative silence for a few minutes, Dean’s short nails scratching and the coarse fabric of Cas’ pants whenever their hands shifted.  The station switched over to commercials, and Dean could feel Cas just itching to change it.  To listen to something else.  But he stayed still.

“What station do you want?” Dean grumbled, feeling Cas’ eyes shift to look at him.  “If you make a big deal out of it I’ll change my mind and we’ll listen to commercials for yogurt and deodorant the rest of the way.”  Cas squeezed his hand again before pulling away, reaching over to touch the dial.  He waited for Dean to nod before he switched the station.

Dean should have expected a top forty station.  This was Cas, he was basically tailor-made to drive him completely off the fucking wall, so of course he’d make him listen to some ridiculous high-energy rap and dance bullshit.  Who the hell needed talent when they had auto tune?  The bass rumbled through his car, vibrating against his legs.  

“Please tell me you’re joking,” Dean grumbled.  Cas reached for his hand again, lacing their fingers together and pulling it into his lap.  He was nonchalant about it, because this was a thing with them now.  This was a touch he was explicitly allowed.  

“It’s raw,” Cas told him, leaning back in the seat and closing his eyes like he wanted to take it all in.  Inject that thrumming, heavy beat straight into his veins.  “I love it.  Makes me feel… awake.”

“Eminem, though?” Dean grimaced.  

“ _And if you don't like me then fuck you_!” Cas said along with the song, his voice low and monotone and completely wrong for the heavy rhythm of rap music.  He sounded way too fucking pragmatic about it and all Dean could do was laugh because this was probably the first time he’d ever heard Cas use the word ‘fuck’.  

Dean had spent a month and a half basically pissed at or, more recently, obsessing over this guy next to him when Cas was apparently just this giant fucking dork with horrible taste in music.  And probably horrible taste in men, too, but Dean could forgive him that one.  He was generous.  

Dean pulled their entwined hands toward his mouth and kissed Cas’ knuckles, one after the other.  Cas’ scent shifted at every press of his lips, a little less cut off.  A little more warmth.  He held their hands against him for the rest of the drive, Cas not breathing a word in protest.

\--

The building was a washed out red brick, narrow white windows situated in even increments along the outside.  It was a narrow building, pressed in close with a shorter, wider house to its left, concrete stairs that led up to unassuming white doors and a wide, shingled awning.  Cas looked out at it from the passenger seat, frowning as the fingers of his free hand fiddled with the door lock.  Dean still had Cas’ other hand, held carefully between his own.  

“You good?” Dean asked, looking over at him.  The Impala was parked against the curb outside the building, key still in the ignition.  Shouldn’t stay here too long if he wasn’t gunna take the space, he’d have someone on his ass.  Still, he wasn’t ready for Cas to leave.

“Yes,” Cas said distractedly, pulling up the lock between his fingers, the mechanism clicking as it released.  His car was gonna smell like Cas for the next few days, hair pressed against the seat, fingers roving over every open surface.  Cas liked to touch things.  “Would you like to come in?”

The question took him by surprise.  He stared at Cas, his wide, earnest eyes and carefully controlled expression.  

“Seriously?” Dean asked.  “You don’t gotta be polite, man, I offered to drive.”

“No, I just,” Cas paused to lick his lips.  “I’m enjoying spending time with you.  I’d like if it didn’t end yet.”  Cas stared over at him, his finger’s twitched against Dean’s palm.  “I can make food.”

“You can cook?” Dean smiled, resting his head back on the leather seat.

“I can put a frozen pizza into the oven.  Would you consider that cooking?”

“No,” Dean laughed out loud, squeezing Cas’ hand before he finally let it go slack.  “I’ll have to cook you a real meal sometime.”  Dean chest felt tight at the words, because yeah.  He kind of really wanted to do that.

Cas pulled his hand away, the absence cooling his warm, damp skin.  Cas stared at his palm, flexing it slowly.  Dean knew without asking what had gotten his attention.  He could smell Dean, pressed into the pores of his skin.  Intentional or not, he’d marked him in a small way.  At least until it faded.  Until he washed it out.  Cas had a strange expression, closing his hand into a fist and pressing it down against his thigh.  

“Pizza’s fine with me,” Dean finally said, shrugging as nonchalantly as he could manage.  His heart had sped up again, his breath coming a little short.

“Alright,” Cas said, moving to open the door.

Once they were inside Cas led Dean up a narrow stairwell to the second floor, four doors leading to separate apartments along the hallway.  Cas pulled his keys out of his pocket and turned toward the furthest door on the left.

"I apologize for the mess.  I'm still unpacking," Cas said as he turned the key and pushed open the door.  

Dean stared around the living room.  It was a strange mix of control and chaos.  There was a dark leather couch in the center of the room, a low wooden coffee table that still smelled like coffee beans and porcelain and polish.  If there was a television Dean couldn’t see it because there were boxes everywhere, dust and cardboard, the dredges of vodka and beer stuck to repurposed liquor boxes.  

That wasn’t the most interesting part, though.

“Wow, you have a lot of books,” Dean said.  There were piles of them everywhere, against the sides of the table and the couch, tall, careful stacks shoved in corners against brick and plaster walls.  They were obviously organized and cared for.  He was surprised he could smell anything over the scent of vanilla, stripped wood and the oils of Cas’ skin clinging to the edges of the pages.  “How long have you been living here?”

“A few months?” Cas said distractedly, moving past Dean.  Dean watched as Cas shucked his layers, his jacket falling from his shoulders, toing the backs of his shoes from his heels.

“You uh,” Dean said, licking his lips.  Cas was kind of stripping and it was kind of distracting.  Dean watched his delicate hands working at the buttons of his shirt.  “You’ve still got all the boxes after a few months?”

Cas shrugged, pulling his shirt open and dropping in on top of his jacket.  Cas looked different in just his undershirt.  He was well-muscled.  Dean would have to say especially so for an omega, but he was still lean.  His muscles moved under his skin as he adjusted, and Dean wanted nothing more than to touch him, feel that under his own hands.  He was confused as to what Cas wanted from him, though.  Usually at this point people were already grabbing at the hem of his shirt, baring their neck as his hands trailed up their bare hips.

He was good at that.  He understood that.  Sex was easy and he liked it.

“I’ve never had a reason to clean up,” Cas said, looking back at him.  “I’ve never had guests, and I work most of the time.”

“I’m your first guest?” Dean asked with a sideways grin, taking a step toward Cas.  Cas huffed out a little laugh in response.

“You can make yourself comfortable,” Cas said, staring up at him.  “I’m going to go preheat the oven.” Dean nodded, watching Cas turn and walk into the small, half concealed kitchen.  He didn’t carry himself as stiffly here, surrounded by his books and old, cracked brick walls and wide white-framed widows.  He had curtain rods and no curtains.  

Dean started stripping his layers, his suit jacket and shoes and his button-up shirt which he set down beside Cas’ next to the couch.  He moved around the room, building up static between his socks and the carpet.  The space was an odd mix of personal and impersonal.  Cas had obviously spent a lot of time with his books, stacked by author and what looked like genre.  But the rest of it looked ignored, shut off like it wasn’t meant for anyone eyes except his own.  Everything unneeded still packed away.  Which was just kind of… not as surprising as it should be.  It made Dean feel strange.

Cas had a television, turned out, but it was small and didn’t look like he’d hooked it up.  It was nestled behind a big, hardly-touched, cardboard Bacardi box labeled kitchen supplies.  Dean grinned.  Cas really didn’t cook.  Dean crouched down beside it.  There was another box, a smaller one, labeled DVDs and Dean knew he probably shouldn’t touch Cas’ shit but he was curious what kind of movies a guy who apparently hadn’t watched TV in at least a few months owned.

Turns out Cas didn’t own any movies that were made after the 1960’s, which was fucking hilarious considering he’d been giving Dean shit for listening to older music.   _Casablanca_ was old enough to fucking babysit Rush and then some.  Dean heard something shift behind him, the scent of Cas mixing with the dust and leather and paper.

“You’re a fuckin’ hypocrite, old man.  You know that?” Dean grinned, continuing to rifle through the small collection.  Cas groaned, but Dean felt him moving closer, the sound of his knees dropping softly to the floor.  He was surprised to feel a sudden warm weight against his back, Cas’ chin propped on his shoulder.  Cas was abruptly the only thing in the room. It was just the two of them, Cas pressed flush against his back, breath on his neck, his hand trailing down the line of his forearm to his hand.  Their fingers laced together.

It was strange, because every touch he’d ever been given by a partner, or whatever, had been… demanding.  A means to an end, another more insistent touch.  Something fevered and needy and raw.  Cas just seemed to touch him without cause, just for the sake of it.  Just like when he’d kissed him on the street, not asking for more than just that.  Not sex.  And Dean just had no fucking idea what to do with it.

He didn’t even know if this was a prelude to another kiss.  He wanted to, though.  To kiss him.

“We can watch something if you want,” Cas said, his voice like sex and gravel and vibrating against his skin.  An omega shouldn’t be fucking allowed to sound like that.  It made him feel small, at Cas’ mercy the way he boxed him in, strong arms draped over his own.  He wasn’t used to that.  Being an alpha, just the barest instinct of it, was always about aggression, strength, taking what he wanted.  It was about wanting control, wanting to _claim_.  

He could get addicted to the way Cas made him feel.

Dean took a deep breath, tipping his head to the side until he touched Cas.  This definitely wasn’t about laying claim.  This was just them feeling each other out, existing in the same space.  This was burning desire and soothing calm at the same time.  This was contentment.  Dean tightened his hold on Cas’ hand, tried to hide the way he breathed in deep.  He wanted to steal every tiny bit of Cas that he was allowed.  

“Hitchcock is awesome,” Dean finally said, pitching his voice lower involuntarily.  A rough, masculine sound.  “ _Psycho_ fuckin’ scarred me.  Couldn’t shower with the curtain pulled closed for weeks.  Drove my mom crazy.”  Cas laughed against him, his breath brushing hot against his neck.  Both of their bodies shook with it, Cas’ fingers tightening around his own.  Cas’ laugh was basically a fucking perfect sound.  “We should watch _Rear Window_.”

“That’s one of my favorites,” Cas replied, nuzzling against his neck as Dean pulled it from the box with his free hand.  His skin felt like it was on fire, a slow prickle down his spine.  “I’ll set up the television.  I’ve got to find something to prop it on.”

Dean laughed, turning his head and pressing his nose into Cas’ hair.  It was as soft as it looked.  His lips were so close to Cas’ skin he could almost taste it.  “Alright, you set up the TV, I’ll take care of the pizza.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Cas said, pulling back so he could properly frown at him.

“I know I don’t.  I want to,” Dean replied with a small grin.  Cas gave him a little half-smile in return and Dean had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from leaning in and kissing him for it.  Instead, he sat forward and pushed himself to his feet, Cas’ hand slipping from his.  

\--

It was dark by the time they curled up on the couch, pizza dripping grease onto thin paper plates balanced precariously on their knees.  Dean kept his distance at first.  Like he was a fifteen year old virgin again with that cute beta girl from second period English.  Not having any idea what to do or say.  That was back before he knew all he had to do was drag his teeth against their bare skin and touch them the right way. That people generally wanted him because of how he smelled and what he was. Before relationships were all about sex, about curbing those insatiable fucking cravings.  

Cas took what he wanted, though, and apparently that was Dean pressed against him.  They were basically spooning, sitting side by side with their feet tucked behind them, Dean’s right arm pinned between Cas’ side and the couch.  His back to Dean’s front.  It was the perfect position to bury his face against the back of Cas’ neck and into his hair.  

They were long done with their food, the movie’s volume low.  Dean’s eyelids felt heavy, and he realized sort of casually that he might sleep next to Cas tonight.  Without so much as a kiss.  Dean let himself shut his eyes, closing his free arm around Cas’ waist to join the other so he was holding Cas against him.  He felt Cas reach up to drag his fingers over his forearm, from his wrist to his elbow and back again.  Over and over.

“Cas?” Dean said, his voice muffled against Cas’ warm skin.

“Hmm.”

“I really didn’t mean it,” Dean said, pressing a very tentative, careful kiss against the back of his neck.  Cas shivered.  “And even if I did… I don’t anymore.”  His face felt warm with embarrassment.  He didn’t like admitting he was wrong, but he owed Cas that at least.  Cas let out a short laugh.  It had a bitter edge.  He leaned back more fully into Dean’s arms, though, turning his head so his ear was pressed against Dean’s lips.  Dean couldn’t help himself.  He kissed him again.

“I’ve heard it before,” Cas said quietly, voice breathy at the press of Dean's lips.  “I’ll hear it again.  I should have told you about the position. Your reaction was understandable."

“I was an asshole,” Dean said quietly.  Hearing that made him feel like the worst piece of shit.  He hated that he’d hurt him.

“You’re stubborn,” Cas said pointedly.  “It’s something I think we have in common.”  

Dean smiled lazily at that.  He realized how tightly he was holding Cas against him, the way he was ghosting his lips over the shell of his ear and down the line of his neck.  Cas’ scent hadn’t changed since the first time they’d met, but it triggered some baser response in Dean now.  Familiarity, frustration.  Affection.  Desire.  Because yeah, Dean wanted him.  Really fucking badly, at that.  

Dean took a deep breath, his eyes falling shut again.  Maybe he wanted this too, though.  He wasn't used to that.

“You’re tired.  You can sleep a little if you want,” Cas said.

“Movies not over,” Dean mumbled, already letting his weight fall across Cas’ back.  He didn’t want to expend the effort to open his eyes again.  Being like this was unfairly comfortable and he probably wouldn’t ever leave if he had the option.  Cas was warm and his touches were calming.

“It’s fine,” Cas said in that obstinate, demanding tone of his.  “Sleep.”

Dean didn’t really have the energy to fight back.  He didn’t really want to, anyway.

\--

This was Hell.  This was what Hell tasted like, what it felt like.

Everything tilted, thinned to nothing but the basest of sensation.  The screech of rubber against pavement, the scream of metal twisting and collapsing.  It stunk, it raked against him like jagged claws, like feral teeth.  He clung to it desperately, though.  Frantically.  To every real, vivid sensation that came at him because the edges of his vision were going dark.  His blood pumped hard in his veins, the stench of burnt rubber mixing in the thick heat, copper, and oil and fear.  The scent of fear was fucking overwhelming.

He was bleeding.  He was sick with it, his body weak, shaking.  It hurt.

His head ached, glass shoved through skin and bone.  His arm was twisted back and the skin torn to shreds, bent metal encasing him.  A strap pulled tight around his throbbing throat.  Trapping him.  Adrenaline bled through him to keep him awake, to keep him alert.

He couldn’t move.  He needed to move. 

He tried.  Fuck.  He couldn’t breathe, his ribs were cracked.  Probably broken.  He coughed and it tasted like bile and blood.  He wanted to bite and claw his way out, his voice wrenched from him violently.  He screamed and it was fucking agony.  He blinked and his vision blurred.  

There was another shape.  A shape he knew, not twisted metal or plastic or torn leather seats.  It was bleeding, its breath coming ragged and loud.  It tore at him in physical ways, the voice strung raw and pleading.  He couldn’t move.  He couldn’t breathe.  Fuck.  All his body wanted to do was act but he couldnt do shit but lay there and try and will his hand to move an inch, half an inch.

“Dean,” he said, his voice low.  Steady.  Too calm for the fucking situation. He was fucking _bleeding out_ and Dean couldn’t do anything.  He couldn’t even move his fucking arms.  Dean bared his teeth, dizzy and furious.

“Dean!”

The voice shot through him, his body jerking violently.  His skin was hot and slick with sweat, his hands shaking, his heart beating so fast he could feel it under his teeth and in the palms of his hands.  There was an arm around his shoulders, a hand pressed to his cheek.  Breath.  That was warm breath on his skin.  Alive and close.  

“Dean, look at me, come on,” he pressed. 

He tried.  Tried to breathe, pulling his eyes open slowly, the weight of them fucking staggering.   That was Cas, though.  That was Cas’ voice.  “Calm down,” he said.  “Just look at me.”  Dean could only see dark at first, like he hadn’t opened his eyes at all, but it slowly fell away.  He saw Cas’ face outlined by the blue light of the television, his eyes wide and searching.  Worried. About him.

“I’m sorry,” Dean said, the words inexplicably heavy on his tongue.  He felt slow, his limbs near dead weight.  His heart hurt it was pounding so hard.  “I’m sorry.” 

“Why?” Cas asked seriously, his thumb brushing over the swell of Dean’s cheekbone.  All Dean could feel was the weight of his own distress, his goddamn shaking limbs.  The warm solidity of Cas against him.  Fucking holding him against his chest.  

Dean stared at him, tried to place himself.  There was leather, paper, grease and brick.  And Cas.  Cas was the most real thing.  He was so close, too, their faces almost touching.  Dean wanted him closer so badly it hurt.  He was just bare nerves, he was raw and stripped down.  He leaned in, found the edge of Cas’ mouth and touched it with his own.  His dry, shaking lips against Cas’ warm skin.  He could hear Cas' heartbeat pounding in his throat.

Dean kissed the edge of his mouth.  Once, and the again.  Cas returned it slowly, tilting his head so their lips brushed.  When he finally closed that small breath of space everything else was gone.

It was careful at first, Cas' hand winding into Dean's hair.  Prodding and exploring like their slow kiss in the street.  Dean grabbed at him this time, though, the connection lighting a fire in his veins that he couldn't ignore.  He kissed Cas hungrily, his hands fisted in Cas' thin shirt, pulling him closer.  Their legs tangled together.  Pressed flush and warm.

Cas was laid back on the couch, Dean half on top of him already, his right arm pinned under Cas.  He spread his fingers against the curve of his spine, Cas arching up so his hips pressed up against Dean's.  Dean was still shaking but he took all that energy and threw it at Cas, parting his lips and letting out a low, needy growl before tasting him again.  He ran his free hand through Cas' hair, pushing it through until he was cupping the base of his neck.  

Dean wanted him.  He wanted everything Cas could give him, he could feel that need growing, low and insistent and aggressive.  Heat pooled between his legs, ached at the base of his cock.  His head screamed and it wasn't about anything but this, how every spot they touched was lit up like a live wire.

"Dean," Cas said against his mouth, his voice perfectly broken between fevered kisses.  Dean pulled his hand from Cas' hair and reached down, scrabbling to tug at the hem of his shirt.  His thumb brushed teasingly along the jutted bone of his hip before he took hold and pushed up, trying to undress him as quickly as he could.  He wanted to press his teeth against bare skin.

Cas' body went stiff, the sudden scent of panic making Dean pause.  Cas' hand pulled jerkily away from where it had been tangled in his hair, soon gripping at his wrist and pushing it down, away.  The fabric of Cas' shirt slipped through Dean's fingers.  Dean took a deep, steadying breath, his mouth hovering inches above Cas'.  There was still a string of spit between their lips, his sweat and scent stuck to Cas' skin.  He felt drunk off it.  Fevered and unbalanced.

"I don't want sex," Cas said, breathless and stern.  

Dean stared at him, trying to calm his breathing.  He was still fevered from his nightmare, the paralysis still a phantom weight against his muscles.  Cas gripped his wrist almost painfully tight, but Dean didn't even think about pulling away.  The fog in his head slowly cleared, and he saw what was happening.  Where he was.  What he was doing.  Cas' scent was wrong, he wasn't aroused.  Not even a little.  Something jerked in Dean at the realization.  

Cas didn't want him the way he wanted Cas.

"I'm sorry," Dean said. His hands were trembling, fingers twitching against his palms, and he hated himself.  He'd lost control, he still felt on the fringes of it.  Cas felt fucking threatened by him. "Fuck, I'm sorry.  Please just... Fuck.  I'll go.  Let me go and I'll leave."  Cas' hand loosened around his wrist, but he didn't let go.  Dean tried to stay steady, but he felt foul.  He didn't know why the hell he was here or what he was doing.

"You don't have to go," Cas said.  He didn't sound angry, he sounded stressed and worried.

"Cas, you don't want me," Dean told him, like Cas wasn't already perfectly aware.  

"I don't want _sex_.  There's a difference," Cas said, his voice hard.  Dean just stared at him, confused. "I'm not mad I just... I can't do this." Cas looked frustrated, and fucking sad.  Dean hadn't ever seen him look so honestly goddamn upset. 

Dean's own silence filled the space between them, and so he did what he could.  He leaned in and kissed him again.  Not hungrily, not with heat.  Just soft and closed mouthed.  Cas kissed him back easily, soft lips moving carefully against his own, the hand around Dean's wrist going completely slack.  He relaxed as Dean pulled back again. 

He felt like he was being buried by the weight of everything Cas wasn't saying.  Dean just wanted to be close to him, craved touch after being so stripped down, and for once in his life sex wasn't a fucking prerequisite for that.  It freaked him out, but if Cas still wanted him here, he would stay.  

"Is that okay?" Dean asked quietly, reaching up and running his hand through Cas' thick, dark hair.  It was damp with sweat.  "Can I kiss you?" 

"Yes," Cas told him, not even pausing to breathe.  His fingers traced lines up Dean's sides, splayed open against his back.  Dean just pulled him close and kissed him again.


	6. Chapter 6

Dean woke up to the sound of typing.  A droning, rhythmic patter of keys. 

His face was pressed and stuck with sweat to the warm leather of Cas’ couch, their mingled scent dug into its pores.  There was a blanket draped over his waist that hadn’t been there when he’d fallen asleep.  They’d been curled up together, him and Cas, fingers laced and breathing calm.  They’d kept each other warm.

Fuck.  Last night.  Dean’s stomach lurched at the memory, of being so raw in front of Cas.  And everything else.  Pushing too hard and too fast.

Dean opened his eyes slowly.  His lids were heavy, his eyes crusted over with sleep.  His shoulder ached where he’d laid on it for at least a few hours.  Cas was on the floor right in front of him, cross-legged and back pressed up against the couch.  He had his laptop balanced between his knees, his beautiful hands working over the keyboard.  Dean watched him for a few seconds, taking in the slope of his neck, his wild bedhead, the shifting of his broad shoulders.  Dean felt guilty for wanting him as much as he did.

“You’re awake,” Cas said easily.  He tipped his head back half an inch, almost like an invitation.  Dean reached out with a clumsy hand to press a palm against Cas’ shoulder.  He drew circles against the stiff muscle, and Cas groaned at the pressure.  Everyone liked a good massage, and Cas was probably carrying more tension than most people.  Dean wanted to do something about that.

“Yeah,” Dean grunted, his voice cracked and low.  “What time is it?”

“Almost ten,” Cas told him.  He sighed as Dean took a firm hold of the knot near the base of his neck, kneading in earnest.  “You… must have been tired.”

“I catch sleep when I can,” Dean told him, propping himself up on one elbow so he could move his arm more freely.  Cas went quiet for a moment, just the sound of his breathing as Dean moved his fingers over his skin.  “You’re workin’ already?  Do you ever take a break?” Dean reached out with his other hand and touched Cas’ back.  He was still propped up on his elbow but he could reach far enough to ghost his fingertips over the ridge of his shoulder blade.  A soft touch was at least calming. 

Cas shrugged sleepily, his hands long since gone still.

“Cas?” Dean asked, moving his kneading fingers to Cas’ neck, Cas baring more of himself for Dean to touch.  He wanted to kiss that long, unblemished column.  Wanted to feel his pulse under his lips.  He couldn’t, though.  Cas hummed in response, his shoulders slowly dropping as he relaxed.  “Can we talk about last night?”

Cas’ shoulders went tense again, and Dean sighed, his hand going slack against his neck.  Taking a short breath, Dean moved the hand to Cas’ shoulder and pressed forward until Cas leaned over, his back no longer touching the couch.  Cas seemed to understand his idea.  He moved the computer off his lap and onto the floor while Dean readjusted himself silently.  He sat up straight on the couch, bracketing Cas between his legs.  Slowly, he pulled Cas back toward him and the couch, both hands on his shoulders resuming the massage.

“What do you want to know?” Cas asked stiffly, his head bowed down toward the floor as Dean pressed his thumbs insistently against the muscle.  It didn’t have a lot of give, but he’d work out the kinks.  He was good with his hands.

“You said you don’t want sex,” Dean told him, frowning a little.  He didn’t know what to think, he didn’t know how to take that. 

Cas took a steadying breath, slowly like he was sucking it in through his teeth.

“Are you opposed to sex completely or is it just too soon?” Dean asked, feeling that gnawing sense of embarrassment in his stomach.  He wasn’t good at talking about… relationship kinds of stuff, but he and Cas weren’t going to stop hurting each other unless they understood each other.  Whatever the outcome of this conversation was. 

“I don’t know,” Cas said, his voice low.  “I’ve never wanted sex.  I mean it’s occurred to me, and the idea doesn’t so much repulse me as it… just… it’s not something I crave.”

Dean frowned.  He couldn’t exactly imagine not wanting sex.  He didn’t want it every second of every day, but he definitely craved it.  In what he thought were pretty healthy amounts outside of rut.  During his rut he knew he was insatiable, but that was just part of life, and at least it was only once every four months.  He found himself focusing a little too much at the knot of bone at the base of Cas’ neck, pressing his thumbs carefully to either side.  His other fingers trailed up below his ears, rubbing and cradling his neck.  Gentle but firm.

“Imagine someone offering you food when you have no appetite,” Cas said. “The food could be awful or it could be amazing and it wouldn’t make a difference because the thought of eating feels like an exhausting obligation.”

“Not even a little difference?” Dean prodded, because he couldn’t really imagine ever hating a five-star quality steak even if he were stuffed full to bursting.

“Maybe a little,” Cas said, his voice coy.  “I’ve never had the opportunity to find out, in any case.  There was never a good enough reason.  I don’t think I’d hate it if it were an extension of intimacy with someone I cared for.  I don’t have sexual desire, but sensual… I do crave that.”  Cas took a breath, and Dean realized his hands had gone still.  Instead of resuming his massage he trailed his fingers carefully up the sides of Cas’ face, ghosting them over his warming ears.  Cas shivered a little at the contact.  “I crave that with you,” Cas admitted quietly.  “The idea of sex for the sake of sex just has absolutely no appeal to me.”

“Huh,” Dean said.  “I’m sorry I fuckin’ jumped you last night.”  He sounded a lot more nonchalant about it than he felt.

“I’m not angry,” Cas said.  “You can’t change your desire for sex any more than I can change my lack of it.  Besides… you were upset.  I wanted to help, but I just couldn’t do that in the way you wanted.”

Dean sucked in a breath.  He kind of wanted to forget the nightmare.  Fucking hated when he had them while he was with someone else.  He hated not being able to hide.  If he pursued this thing with Cas he wouldn’t be able to, not forever.  That thought freaked him out significantly more than the idea of being abstinent.  Shit, he was really considering it.

“What about…” Dean licked his lips, considering how fucking invasive this question would be.  “What about when you’re in heat?”

Cas was quiet for moment, his scent dulling as if someone had shut a window.  Bad topic.  Way to fucking go, Dean.  Dean just sat there, running his fingers over Cas’ skin and trying to make him more comfortable.  Cas was so shut off that it made him anxious, a gnawing pit in the center of his chest.

“I don’t share my heat with others,” Cas finally said with as much detachment as he could apparently muster.  It was so put on that Dean found it jarring. 

Dean nodded slowly, letting his fingers trail back down toward Cas’ shoulders.  He leaned forward to press his forehead to the crown of Cas’ head, breathing in the sweet scent of his hair.  He tried to ignore his worry, the sudden well of badly directed aggression and protectiveness, but he had to ask.

“No one hurt you, right?” Dean asked, his voice almost too low to be audible.  The idea made him feel sick.

“Sexually?”  Cas asked, obviously surprised.  “No.  Not at all.  That would be an easier explanation, but–“

“No,” Dean interrupted, his voice hard.  “No, fuck, thank God.”  He pressed a kiss into Cas’ hair, inhaling deeply.  Cas stiffened a little at the affection, but then he was reaching back and running his own fingers through Dean’s hair.  Dean could have purred with contentment at the contact.  He had no idea how much he wanted this kind of connection until Cas.  Until it was given openly and enthusiastically.

“Last night,” Cas said slowly.  His hand went still.  Dean thought he could feel the pulse in his thumb thrumming against his skin.  “You didn’t try to change my mind.  You just stopped.”

“Well, yeah,” Dean said, pulling back. 

Cas tipped his head back until Dean could see his face, the long line of his neck, his collarbone poking out beneath the neckline of his tee.  Cas frowned up at him curiously, his arm still hooked around the back of Dean’s neck.  His thumb dragged through the short hairs behind his ears.  The silence was strange and charged, Dean licking his lips and trying not to shy away from Cas’ stare. 

Cas still didn’t say a word before he finally pulled Dean down into a kiss. 

Dean fell into it the way he always seemed to.  He wondered if that would ever change, if the novelty of it would ever wear off.  Maybe it would, maybe something better would take its place.  He touched Cas under his chin, trailed his fingers down toward his throat.  Cas smiled against his lips.

They stayed like that for a moment, the angle awkward but the kiss too nice to break too soon.  Once they finally did, Dean’s heart was racing.  He was so fucking nervous.  He thought maybe he’d made up his mind, though. 

“Look,” Dean said, a little too breathless and a little fucking embarrassed by it.  “I’ve never been in a real relationship.  Even shit that lasted longer than a couple dates was still pretty much just… fucking.  And that was what I wanted, or I guess what I thought I wanted.  It was just easier that way.”  Dean licked his lips.  His mouth felt dry.  Cas’ eyes were trained on him, intense and so blue it kind of seemed unreal.  He felt really out of his depth.  “I can’t stop wanting you, Cas, but I like this.  I like being like this with you.” 

Cas’ eyes widened a little, his lips twitching to keep his expression steady.  Dean didn’t know if Cas wanted to smile or frown.  He hoped he wasn’t saying the wrong thing.

“I wanna keep hanging out with you,” Dean told him.  He felt like a fucking teenager.  Usually this shit just fell into place, and then quickly fell out again.  There was rarely any talking about it.  He had to with Cas, though, and maybe that was good.  Even considering how terrifying and frustrating saying this shit out loud was.  “You can call the shots.”

“That’s unfair to you,” Cas said with a small frown.  His hand found Dean’s, though, and they laced their fingers together.  “You’ll resent me.  You won’t be happy.”

“You talkin’ from experience?” Dean asked.  Cas’ frown just deepened.  That was a yes.  Dean doubted anyone had ever put Cas’ comfort first.  Dean liked sex, but he was pretty sure he liked Cas more.  “All I’m saying is that I want to try.  You’re the first person I’ve met in a long fucking time that’s made me want that.  That’s gotta be worth somethin’, right?”

“Yes,” Cas said, staring up at him.  “I think it’s worth a lot.” 

Dean felt Cas tugging at his hand, and he hesitantly let him go, missing the connection immediately.  Cas sat up from the floor and pushed himself to his knees.  Then, he turned to face Dean.  Knelt between his legs.  He reached out and took Dean’s face in his hands, cupping his jaw.  Dean took in a shaky breath.  Fuck, he liked that a lot.  It was so quietly reverent and possessive at the same time. 

“Okay,” Cas said, his tone serious and pointed. 

“Okay?”  Dean asked as he stared at him, focusing on the way his scent slowly warmed, stronger and sweeter than it had been since he’d woken up.  Cas smelled like the pages of an old book, dust pushing up from the paper and spreading through the air.

“Yes.  I’d like to give this a try,” Cas said, tilting his head to the side.  His thumbs brushed at the edges of Dean’s mouth.  “I’d like to try and make you happy as well.”

Dean grinned at him, unable to push down the excited, warm feeling that bled through him at the words.

“Awesome,” Dean said, putting his hands on either side of Cas’ neck, his thumbs brushing the thick stubble at his jaw.  He was pleased at the way Cas’ heart seemed to speed up at the contact.  Without another word Dean leaned in to kiss him, Cas’ hand winding possessively into his short hair.

\--

Hanging out with Cas was relaxing.  Dean didn’t really know what couples did, or if they were a couple at all, and yeah it kinda made him really fucking nervous, but despite how uptight Cas was at work he was calm and undemanding in his own space.  Maybe people just did that.  Shared space with each other. 

That’s how it was with family, at least back when he’d let himself have that.

They talked easily over breakfast.  Cas had eggs, milk, bread, and to Dean’s surprise a small assortment of hardly touched seasonings, most with the plastic wrap still on them.  Dean managed to whip them both up some pretty great french toast and eggs.  It’d probably been a while since the guy’d had something other than cereal or plain toast for breakfast.  Or just black coffee. 

Cas’ face when he took the first bite would tide Dean over for a while.  He liked seeing Cas happy.  A lot.

Cas kept himself busy through the afternoon with his work, cross legged on the floor with his third cup of strong, dark coffee and his laptop propped on the short table in front of him.  He probably bled caffeine.  Cas looked comfortable in jeans and a plain white button up, sleeves rolled to his elbows.  Dean wondered if they guy ever brushed his hair because he’d come out earlier with his dark waves still shower wet and sticking up in all directions.  Dean had just laughed and mussed it up even more.  Cas had looked murderous. 

Dean pulled at the hem of his borrowed shirt, a little too tight over his broad shoulders.  Cas was only a little smaller than him, but Dean had a fairly impressive shoulder width despite his understated muscle tone.  Dean was strong, but not bulky.  He sat back against the arm of the couch, a pad of paper and a ball point pen propped against his knee.  He didn’t make measurements for this stage, he just drew freehand.  Little sketches that mapped out the car’s curves and angles.

He drew in the shape of the hood, the slope down to thickly treaded tires and star-pointed hubcaps.  Dean kept himself busy shading it in with cross hatched lines, filling in the empty spaces with a focused precision.  He was so deeply entrenched in his work that he hadn’t noticed Cas coming to kneel beside him until their arms brushed.

“You don’t think the hubcaps are a little ostentatious?” Cas said, his voice low and slightly teasing.

“It’s called style, Cas,” Dean grinned, dropping the pen onto his lap so he could put his arm around Cas’ waist.  He pulled him closer.  “Not something you’d know about.”

“Excuse me,” Cas sighed, turning his head so his nose brushed against Dean’s hair.  He might have imagined Cas breathing a little too deeply, but he hoped not.  “I prefer function over form.”

“Form’s got a function,” Dean smiled.  “Car’s gotta have both.  Most people don’t know the difference between em’ aside from how they look.  It’s Charlie and Ash’s job to make sure she runs well.  I get to dress her up.”  Cas chuckled a little at that.

“You draw beautifully,” Cas said, his forehead pressed to Dean’s temple.  He reached over and touched the paper, trailing his fingers over the inked in lines, like a blind man reading braille.  Dean hardly suppressed a shiver at Cas’ breath brushing over his cheek.  Cas was so fucking tactile when he was comfortable.  Dean hoped he deserved that trust, hoped he wouldn’t fuck it up. 

“You don’t just draw technically well,” Cas continued, his voice quiet.  “You add details that are… unnecessary, perhaps.  The reflection on the metal and the pattern of treads on the tires. You put as much effort into those as you do the overall form.”

“You saying it’s a waste of time?” Dean asked.  He leaned into Cas a little more. 

“I’m saying that you care about your work.  You care as much about these drawings as you do about the car they’ll eventually help create.”  Dean followed Cas’ fingers across the page.  A small streak of blue ink trailed out under the middle one.  Cas lifted his hand from the page, turning it over to examine the stain on the pad of his finger.  “Sorry, I didn’t realize it hadn’t dried.”

“It’s fine,” Dean said, a little too focused on Cas to care about the small blemish he’d left on his silly sketch.

“Why didn’t you go into design?” Cas asked.  “I can’t imagine it would have been hard to find a program that would have accepted you.  Designers who understand engineering are more than ideal.” 

Dean shrugged as nonchalantly as he could, the arm around Cas’ waist going stiff.  This was picking at a very old wound.  “I considered it,” Dean told him.  “At one point.  Then I didn’t consider it again.”  It was the truth.  A very vague truth, but it was more than he’d generally admit to most people.  Cas frowned at him, like he was rolling another thought around.

“Did you ever consider art?”

“What?” Dean asked, mouth dry.  “Like as a job?”  Cas just stared at him, placing his hand on top of Dean’s.  “No, uh.  No, it’s just a hobby.  You think I could make a living like that?”

“Artists can make good money if they’re driven and talented.  And possibly a little lucky.  Generally they don’t go into art for that reason, though.  It’s a passion.” Cas looked him over like he was searching for something.  “A passion you have, I think.”

“Nah,” Dean said, turning back to his work.  “Not me.”  With his free hand he flipped the page to a blank one, focusing on barely-there indentions on the paper, the shade of his drawing. 

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” Cas told him.  Dean let out a small laugh and squeezed his hand.

“S’fine,” Dean said.  “Dad was kind of, uh, you know.  Weird about that shit.”  Fuck, what the fuck was he doing?  He didn’t talk about his family and he definitely didn’t talk about his dad.  “You wanna go out tonight?  How long’s it been since you saw a movie that wasn’t in Technicolor?”

If Cas was startled by the change of subject, he didn’t show it.  He just rolled his eyes, pulling away so he could move back toward his computer.

“Let me finish these and we can look up movie times,” Cas said.  “Nothing with more than one reasonably sized explosion, please.” 

Dean smiled, pushing himself off the couch, his notebook forgotten.

\--

“That was awful,” Cas told him, trying to drag Dean back toward the car by their linked hands.

“You laughed, you dick,” Dean smiled, squeezing his hand and pulling him back.  Soon Cas was facing him, way too close and staring over at him with surprise.  Their chests were only a few inches apart.  Fuck, he was gorgeous.  The lights from passing cars lit up along the edge of his jaw, in his eyes.  The harsh wind blew through his wild, dark hair. 

“I laughed because it was awful,” Cas frowned.  “The visual effects were hilariously overstated, and the dialogue was unbelievable.  Also, I don’t understand why every omega in _every movie_ falls for the alpha lead in the end.  They barely even spoke to one another.”

Dean smiled at him, leaning forward so he could brush his nose against Cas’ cheek.

“Don’t like alphas, Cas?”

“Alphas tend to be presumptuous,” Cas said, his voice pitched a little lower.  His arms stayed stiffly down by his sides as Dean ran his thumb over the inside of his wrist.  “Aggressive and instinct-driven.  They care more for the way someone looks or smells or how willing they are to bend over.  Other things seem to fall by the wayside.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, tone a little raw.

“I was concerned that you would be like that,” Cas admitted quietly.

“Can be,” Dean admitted.  “Hard not to be.”

“There’s a difference between understanding that you have these primal urges and letting them control you,” Cas told him.  Dean flinched a little. He really didn't deserve any fucking recognition for his 'control'. He really tried these days because he'd fucked up enough already, but sometimes his blood sang and all he felt was feral. “Were you the only alpha in your family?”

“Nah,” Dean said, taking hold of Cas’ hand and leading them both down the dirty sidewalk toward his parked car.  Cas walked close beside him.  Family stuff again.  Shit.  “Dad and brother… are –” he stumbled over the word, “– both alphas.  Mom’s an omega, though, and she was the one who was home when I was growin’ up.  Dad’s job had him gone most of the time.”  Dean licked his lips, staring down at his feet.  The pavement stunk of piss and burnt down cigarette butts, people’s stale scent still clinging to the fibers of the filter.  

“She… uh, she always tried to make me see what I was outside of _alpha_ ,” Dean told him, his voice low.  His chest hurt a little thinking of Mary.  Fuck, he missed her.  He could just imagine the flowery scent of her, soft and warm.  Her arms around his shoulders.  “She helped me calm down when I got too angry as a teenager.  After I presented… things just got so… goddamn intense.  Just so fucking aware of every little smell, every shift.  Like being constantly on alert.  Mom told me omegas have more… I guess focused senses.  They probably don’t have this… viciousness.”

“Maybe not the same way,” Cas told him, squeezing his hand.  “My instinct tells me to submit.  To protect myself rather than to defend outwardly the way an alpha, or even a beta, would.  The aggression… it can turn very inward.” Cas’ voice seemed dry around the words.  “I won’t submit myself, though… that’s kept me safe enough, so far.”

Dean looked over at him.  Cas lashed out, he took care of himself, but he still hid a lot of himself away.  Dean had never really thought about that, though, about the different ways they might experience the same thing.  His blood singing for a fight when he took a hit where Cas might just ache for escape.  Both running in different directions.  They both had to bite the bullet to act differently than their instincts wanted them to. 

This thing between them was kind of that, kind of a big fuck you to everything he’d expected from a relationship or a mate.  It had very little to do with what his body craved.

They made it to the car soon enough, settling in against the cool leather seats.

“Alright so I guess I’m, uh, dropping you off?”  Dean asked, fiddling with his keys.

Their hands had found each other between them on the seat, fingers loosely laced.  He didn’t want to drop Cas off and go home alone, but a ten minute drive from the office had very quickly turned into spending two days and a night together and also tentatively starting a relationship and he didn’t know whether or not he needed to slow the fuck down.

Out of all the instincts he was trying to bite down – holding him, touching him, kissing him, marking him – wanting to just spend time with him was the hardest to ignore.

“Is that what you want?” Cas asked, his eyes narrowed.

“No,” Dean said.  It was weirdly difficult to be anything but bluntly honest with Cas.  “I just don’t wanna push this too hard.” 

Cas frowned at him for that, suddenly very serious.  Before Dean knew what was happening Cas was leaning across the seat, his hand fisted in the collar of his shirt.  Cas kissed him with force, more like a warning than affection, but as Dean opened to it Cas softened as well.  It lasted for maybe a few seconds but his heart was racing when Cas finally pulled back, just a breath between their mouths.

“Stop doing that,” Cas growled.  “Don’t deny yourself everything you want because you think you’re protecting me.  I am very capable of doing that for myself.”  Dean nodded weakly, his pulse hammering in his throat.  Cas leaned back a little further so they could meet each other’s eyes.  “If you do something I dislike I will tell you.  I have already told you my physical boundaries.  You have to trust me or this won’t work.”

Dean watched him for a moment, his eyes wide, flitting over the crease of his brow and the planes on his cheekbones and jaw.  Then he pulled Cas forward, hand around the back of his neck, and kissed him hungrily. He mapped out the shape of his mouth, his teeth pulling at his bottom lip.  Cas let him explore, let himself fall completely into it.  Pliant and receptive.  He let Dean take control.  Dean ran his fingers through Cas’ hair, pushing it back, down to the nape of his neck.  He licked at the seam of Cas’ lips, but Cas just nipped at his tongue in warning. 

Dean laughed, Cas pulling on his hair before stealing another closed mouth kiss.  Alright, figuring out what he liked was important.  Not everyone was into tongue wrestling. 

Their kiss melted into something softer, something more like the careful kisses they’d shared the night before.  More about exchanging comfort than satisfying any burning need.  It was easy.  Dean could taste them both in the air, twisted together, warming the space.  It settled something in him.

Cas eventually pulled back to breathe, laying soft kisses at the edge of his mouth.  Careful and measured and fucking amazing. 

“Do you like kissing?” Dean asked, his voice rough.

“I’m surprised,” Cas said.  He leaned in to kiss Dean again, this time at the crest of his cheekbone.  “I enjoy kissing you.  It’s nice when it’s not… demanding.”  Cas took a breath, his head tipping to the side.  “I like that you like it.”

“Good,” Dean smiled, leaning back and running his fingers through his hair.  Trying to pretend he was less affected than he was.  “Come home with me.  I’ve got beer and we can watch more movies, or just… hang out.  Might as well see my place since I’ve been laying around yours the past couple days.”

Cas stared at him, a small smile quirking at his lips.  They were pink and a little swollen.  “Okay,” he finally said.  “Good.”

Dean leaned in to kiss him one more time before finally twisting the key in the ignition, his Impala roaring to life.

\--

“You’re a lightweight,” Dean grinned, crossing his arms.  He stood in the middle of his living room, Cas looking over at him from the couch, his mouth pressed into a frown.  Completely fucking scandalized.

“I’m’n not,” Cas said, tripping up the words.  “Fuck.  I’m not drunk.”

Dean laughed, because he probably wasn’t.  Just a little tipsy and a lot tired.  It was nearly midnight and they’d made it through one and a half of the _Lord of the Rings_ movies and two six-packs of beer between them.  Cas’ cheeks were flushed pink, his lips slightly parted.  His scent was open and warm and relaxed which made it hard for Dean not to just cover Cas’ body with his.

“C’mon.  It’s late.  Let me drive you home.” 

Cas frowned deeper, his eyes unfocused and bleary.  Dean took a step forward, watching as Cas pushed himself stiffly off the couch.  He didn’t answer Dean, just walked toward him, not even a little unsteady, and didn’t stop until he was pressed against him.  He buried his face against Dean’s neck, his stubbled jaw rubbing the skin a little raw.  Dean didn’t question it, just circled his arms loosely around Cas’ waist, Cas’ arms still hanging limply at his sides.  He only pressed himself more firmly against Dean’s neck. 

“Can I trust you?” Cas asked, his voice gravelly and lucid despite the bitter tang of beer on his breath.  It was a strange sort of dichotomy between Cas’ reluctance to hug Dean back and the way he buried himself against his skin.  Like he didn’t know which act was more intimate.  Dean had no idea, either.

“Hope so,” Dean said.  His heart had already started to beat a little faster, wishing he knew what to do now.  What Cas expected from him, what he wanted.

“I told you the truth, earlier.  I don’t want to mislead you,” Cas said, his voice buzzing against his overheated skin.

“I know,” Dean said, hugging him a little tighter to compensate for the fact that Cas wasn’t holding him back at all.  He seemed suddenly sad, his body sagging a little more.  He wasn’t guarding himself as well as he usually did.    

“Where is your bedroom?” Cas asked, pulling back so they were pressed cheek to cheek.  Dean nuzzled into the touch, unable to keep himself from such a simple thing.  He wanted to leave pieces of himself on Cas’ skin, wanted to be marked in return.  It was a visceral need. 

“Upstairs,” Dean said simply. 

Cas nodded against him as Dean’s arms fell away from his waist.  Cas led them both upstairs, the question of whether or not Dean was going to drive him home lost in the silence between them. 

Dean knew nothing was going to happen.  Or maybe a lot of shit was going to happen, but not whatever he was used to.  They’d slept together on the couch last night, fully clothed and on a whim.  Climbing into bed with someone deliberately was kind of really fucking different. 

Dean opened the door to his bedroom so Cas could walk in.  The space was sparse.  His bed was low to the ground with a pretty standard, plain headboard.  Navy blue comforter over grey sheets.  Cas looked over his belongings, a dirty t-shirt that had missed the hamper, a pair of worn leather boots.  Cas moved toward the wooden dresser to where he kept an old record player and a box of records he’d picked up at thrift shops since he was old enough to pocket enough money to afford them.  Fingers outstretched, Cas traced the edges of the records, looking through the worn covers.  He stopped and pulled one out, motioning it at Dean.

“You have all of Led Zeppelin’s albums?”

“Yeah,” Dean smiled, finally walking over to him.  They stood side by side, staring at the cover for Physical Graffiti.  “That’s one of their best albums.  I mean me, I like classic Zep.  You know, mix of blues and rock, but this album’s really different.  Really experimental, tons of layering.  Probably gotta be in the mood or just stoned to really appreciate it.”  Cas cocked an eyebrow at him, and Dean grinned.  “ _Kashmir_ ’s a fucking classic, though.  Can’t argue with that.”

“You like music,” Cas said.

“I fuckin’ love music,” Dean smiled.  He took the album from Cas and removed the record from the sleeve, taking in the smell of dust and vinyl.  It had a weird effect, nostalgia hanging over him like a thick sheet.  Hot summer days spent with Sam, grease under his nails and humming along with _Ramble On_.  He set up the record on the player, switching it on so it started to spin.  He let his fingers trail over the smooth metal edge of the player before he reached for the needle, setting it into place.  The volume was low, the upbeat rhythm of _House of the Holy_ playing through the speakers.

Cas was smiling when Dean turned back to him, and Dean grinned back.  Reaching for both of his hands, Dean laced their fingers together and pulled them to his lips, kissing his knuckles.  He’d never been like this with anyone.  Their touches were just so… fucking fleeting and barely enough that he took as much as he could.  Cas’ eyes were tired, still glazed over.  A more vibrant blue with the drunken blush creeping up his cheeks.  Dean could smell the heat and sweat on him.

“Alright, I’ve got spare sleep pants in the bottom drawer,” Dean said, letting go of Cas and crouching down to rifle through his dresser.  He picked out a pair of light blue cotton pants for Cas and a pair of red plaid ones for himself.  He also grabbed two black undershirts. 

When he turned to look over at Cas, he was already stripping out of his clothes.  Absolutely no fucking shame about it at all.  Fuck.  He was definitely in shape, his arms strong with muscle, his stomach flat and framed by fucking sinful hipbones.  His clothes definitely didn’t do him any favors.  Especially not that damn trenchcoat he wore everywhere.  He was gorgeous.  Unbuckling his belt, Cas started to push his pants down over his legs.  Dean had been staring, yeah, but when he saw Cas’ left thigh his heart felt like it stopped for a half a beat.

There was a scar.  A big one.  It seemed to start at the outside of his knee, a little jagged, but then it tapered out into a straighter cut across his leg, coming to a thin line at the inside of his thigh.  Accidental wounds weren’t that fucking clean.  It looked very… deliberate.  Hesitation at first, and then a quick, brutal rip of flesh.  If it went deep enough it would have cut through a major artery.  Cas would have bled out in minutes.

Dean couldn’t stop fucking staring at it. 

“Dean,” Cas said, his voice hard.  Fuck.  “Pants, please.”  Dean finally jerked his eyes away from the scar and down at his hands, grabbing the clothes meant for Cas and tossing them in his direction.  Cas seemed to hesitate before kneeling to pick them up.  “Don’t worry about it,” he said, tone a little softer but stilted.  He tipped his head toward the scar and Dean couldn’t help but glance back at it.  “I had an accident when I was younger.”

Accident.  Right.

“Okay,” Dean said, his voice cracking he spoke so low. 

It wasn’t like he didn’t have his own secrets.  It just made him feel really strange.  Worried.  He ignored it, though, standing up so he could shuck off his own clothes, watching Cas pull on the black tee in the corner of his eye.  Once he was dressed he stared over at the bed.  Cas just ignored his hesitation, walking over to it with purpose and pulling back the covers.  Once he’d climbed in, Dean followed, taking the other half of the bed, the right half.  He tried to get comfortable, but he wasn’t sure how this was going to work.  Jesus fuck it was just sleeping next to another person.  He’d done it a million times.

Not like this, though.  Never like this.

Cas laid on his side, his head pillowed on his arm.  His other arm was out in front of him, hand open and palm up.  Dean watched for a second before reaching over with his own hand.  He trailed his fingers over the inside of Cas’ elbow, up the line of his forearm and wrist.  Their fingers linked together.  Easily, like they’d been doing all day.

“You’re nervous,” Cas said, his voice quiet, barely audible over the low music.  It was already near the end of _Kashmir_.  It’d taper out soon.  He’d have to get up and shut it off. 

Dean just stared at Cas.  He didn’t need to fucking admit it.  He’d been transparent enough.  Part of him felt like he was walking over glass, but another part of it felt so goddamn easy.  It wasn’t even about the lack of sex, because at this point he couldn’t give two shits about that.  It was just how fucking surprised he was that he could be this close and this comfortable with someone.  He was terrified he’d fuck it up like he fucked up every other important relationship in his life.  The more time he spent with Cas the more goddamn helpless he felt.  

Years of hopping bars and having meaningless sex and never getting phone numbers before he walked out the door, and here he was.  Him and Cas, purposefully in bed together.  It just kind of hit him like a goddamn truck that this was what they were doing.  They were going to try.  

He realized he was staring at Cas.  Fuck, he could taste the beer on Cas’ breath, the sweet scent of his skin and sweat, mingled with the taste in his own mouth.  Bitter and strong.  Intoxicating.  He could see his pulse thrumming vibrations in his neck.  Cas just stared back at him, patient and unreadable.

Screw it.  Whatever. 

Dean moved forward, letting go of Cas’ hand so he could wrap his arm around Cas’ shoulder, pulling them together.  Cas molded to the shape of his body, their legs tangled in the sheets between them.  Dean buried his face into the slope of his neck and shoulder, feeling the dull scrape of his day old stubble dragging against Cas’ warmed skin.

“I like this,” Cas said after a few minutes, his hand trailing over Dean’s hip up to his shoulder blades.  “I think I like it more than kissing.”

Dean laughed against him, hugging him tightly to his chest like he might disappear any second.

“Me too.”

They stayed like that, Dean running his hand through Cas’ soft hair, nuzzling into the crook of his neck.  They stayed until all Dean could hear was the light scrape of the needle on the forgotten record.  He untangled himself from Cas who gripped at his shirt, frowning at the loss.

“Give me a fuckin’ second,” Dean teased, taking Cas’ hand from the hem of his tee and putting it back on the bed.  Cas pulled the spare pillow to his chest, wrapped himself around it.  What a fucking picture that made. 

Dean walked sleepily to the dresser and shut off the record player, taking the vinyl and sliding it back in its sleeve.  Breathing deeply, Dean turned back to the bed.  He watched Cas. Stared at the shape of him against his bedsheets.  The slow rise and fall of his chest.  Dean was so fucking lost on him, completely fucking helpless. Completely out of his depth.

When Dean finally slid back into bed, Cas grabbed for him greedily.  Pulled Dean back against him.  They feel asleep like that, entwined.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter Warnings:** Sexual Content

Over the next few weeks, Cas started to unpack his boxes.

It was just little things at first.  Kitchen supplies.  Dean didn’t really cook for himself that often, and maybe that was part of the self-imposed slump he’d been in for the past few years, but Cas didn’t eat well on his own and Dean made it his personal responsibility to make sure that changed.  Besides, for how much the guy hated cooking he fucking loved food and devoured pretty much everything Dean made him with very little discrimination.  

He liked the meatloaf Dean made.  Italian breadcrumbs and egg and powdered onion.  Dean kneaded it with his hands and dabbed remnants of it on Cas’ nose when he hovered too much.  It earned him a scowl and a snarl, which wasn’t so much intimidating as it was ridiculously fucking adorable.  "Unsanitary," he'd grumble as he turned toward the sink, his lips pressed tight to avoid smiling.  Cas liked the steak he made, marinated for hours and broiled for minutes, served with baked potatoes and fresh green beans with butter melted over.  Cas liked pot roast and baked chicken and rice and he’d groan around forkfuls of all of it.

No one appreciated his cooking half as much as Cas did.

Cas bought a sturdy wooden television stand and unpacked his box of DVDs, setting them in alphabetical order on its shelves.  He unpacked lamps and throw pillows for his bedroom, brightly colored blankets that he draped over the back of his couch.  Every time Dean came over they’d pull out something new and find a place for it.  Framed photographs of London and Paris and New York on the walls, paintings propped against the red brick.  They found curtains one day, packed in under a bathroom rug and a few decorative vases, and Dean hung them over the windows.  They cast the apartment in a pale pink light when the sun shone through them.

Dean and Cas got comfortable in the space the way they got comfortable with each other.  Even with the newness of everything, there was something about it that felt very grounded.  Very familiar and settled.

Work was still weird.  He had to admit that.  For all the progress they’d made Cas was still, well, _Cas_.  He hounded Dean for reports and gave him work that spilled into late nights and weekends.  Cas would be there with him through it, though.  Just the two of them, comfortable and nearly touching as Cas worked quietly on budgets or plans or whatever the hell else he was always so wrapped up in.  Dean was starting to get it.  He’d never met anyone who worked as hard as Cas did.  The job seemed like a weirdly stabilizing point in Cas’ life.  Duty was something he took to with no issue.

Between error reports at work and half a dozen unpacked boxes at home, there was just the two of them.  Those few quiet moments when they got a little closer, let themselves be something together.  Dean cooking a new meal, or teaching Cas how to play rummy, or watching Cas read while Dean slowly fell asleep againt his shoulder.  Moments when they touched.  Any fucking touch at all.  Any moment when all the other bullshit seemed to fall away.    

It was slow, but slow wasn't bad.

The no-sex thing wasn’t as hard as he expected, either.  Granted, it’d only been about a month, give or take, since they’d started this thing.  This relationship.   It probably helped that they hardly spent more than a few minutes together really kissing because while Cas liked it, he preferred not to just make out all the time.  Dean let that go easily because it kept his dick in check.  It was fucking intoxicating, though.  Cas always kissed Dean like it was their first time, or their last.  They were never wasted.  They always meant something.

All in all, things were going well.  They figured things out the way they unpacked boxes.  Little by little.

\--

It was already late; Dean’s house a little overwarm and the television on mute.  It just played reruns of CSI that Dean could glance at when he wasn’t immersed in his work.  Their backs were pressed flush, Cas’ hair tickling his neck.  Cas’ breathing a constant, returning pressure against his shoulder blades.  Dean leaned his head back so it was propped on Cas’ shoulder.  

“You almost done?” Dean grunted.  His pen lay across the paper on his lap, a design he’d been working at all evening.  His wrist hurt and his eyelids were drooping.  It was nearly midnight and all he wanted to do was crawl into bed and sleep.  

“Mmm,” Cas hummed, “I need a few more minutes.”

Dean turned his head a little so his nose was pressed against Cas’ neck.  Couple weeks ago a few wandering kisses told him that Cas was pretty fuckin’ sensitive there.  In the small, smooth patch of skin right below his ear.  Rendered him damn near catatonic for a second.  Dean kissed him there to get his attention, and he could feel the shiver that ran through Cas’ body.

"Dean," Cas warned.  "I'll be done soon."

"Fine," Dean huffed, kissing him again anyway before pushing himself off the couch.  He set his work on the table, fingers dragging along the edges of the paper.  Pen set aside.  Cas' eyes were still fixed on his laptop.  "I'm heading up,” Dean told him.  Cas just nodded, his shoulders slumping.  Dean watched him for another few seconds before turning toward the stairs.

Once in his room, Dean undressed slowly.  He crouched down to open the bottom drawer of his dresser and picked out a pair of pajamas for him and Cas.  Tossing one set to his bed, he started to pull on his own pair of worn cotton pants.  He had both arms in the sleeves of his shirt when he felt hands close around his biceps.

"Jesus, Cas.  Make a noise," he gruffed.

Cas chuckled lightly, his fingertips trailing down Dean’s arms.  Fuck, that felt good.  Cas pressed to his back, breath on his neck.  Dean tried, really fucking tried, not to let it work him up, but his blood went hot.  Cas latched his thumbs under the hem of his shirt, still wrapped around his arms.  Slowly, with a push, the shirt fell back to the floor.

“What are you doing?” Dean asked, his voice thick.  This was new.  Cas didn’t push boundaries like this.

“I want to see you,” Cas told him.  Like it was obvious.

Cas turned him around slowly.  His eyes were piercing.  A clear, calm blue.  He looked him over, gaze trailing from Dean’s throat to his waist.  There was no lust there, no blown pupils, no shift in scent to tell him anything was different from when they’d been pressed back to back on the couch.  Nothing had changed.  Dean couldn’t say the same for himself.  He took a deep breath.

“You’re attractive,” Cas told him.  He sounded like he was fucking appraising merchandise.  Dean laughed, some of the tension leaking out of his muscles.

“What?” Dean grinned.  “You just noticed?”

“I’m not blind,” Cas frowned.  It was a teasing frown, though.  “I admit it matters significantly more to me who you are than what you look like.  Still, you are objectively beautiful.” Dean felt his face go hot.  Alpha males weren’t ‘beautiful’.  They were… masculine and rugged.  Handsome, maybe.   “I think I should consider myself lucky,” Cas said with a little smile.

“You’re not so bad yourself, old man,” Dean teased.

 “I’m not that old,” Cas frowned, his eyes narrowed.  “How old are you?”

“Twenty-five,” Dean answered.  How the hell had they not had this conversation?  It’s one of those things you kind of forget to ask a person if you’ve known them a while before you actually start hanging out.  Like it’s supposed to be common knowledge, like last names.  Or fuckin’ first names.

Dean felt a little better knowing that he at least knew Cas’ full name.  Middle and everything.  Castiel James Novak.

“It’s a good thing we aren’t having sex because I’m fairly certain this is illegal,” Cas said in that way too fucking serious tone.  Dean couldn’t help but grin.

“What?” Dean laughed.  “You’re only like… thirty.  Thirty-two tops.”

Cas cocked an eyebrow.  “More like thirty-seven.”

Dean swallowed a smile.  “Huh,” he said.  “Shit.”

“Is it an issue?” Cas asked.  He reached out and touched Dean’s collar bone, his eyes drawn down his broad chest.  Dean thought he’d gotten used to Cas’ attention, the way he stared.  He was apparently wrong.  He didn’t want him to stop.

“Nah,” Dean smiled.  “It’s kinda hot actually.”  Cas looked up at him just in time to catch Dean’s teasing wink.

“Hmm,” Cas hummed.  Unimpressed.  “You have too many scars for twenty-five.”

Dean didn’t say anything to that, and only half because Cas’ finger was dragging along a small scar about an inch away from his nipple and any responses would probably come out as just… _really_ fucking inappropriate noises.  This wasn’t a sexual touch but apparently his body hadn’t gotten the damn memo.

“So you’ve,” Dean paused, licking his lips as Cas’ hand trailed a little further down to his stomach, a thicker, wider scar.  They were easy to miss if you weren’t looking.  Easy to ignore.  They were all old and small enough that they’d healed almost completely.  Cas seemed to find them all, though.  “You’ve never been with anyone? Thirty-seven years is a long time.”

Cas stopped touching him, or at the least stopped moving his hand.  It was simple enough to ignore the lingering pressure.  

“I really don’t think I’ve missed out.  I don’t know if that would be different if I were capable of sexual attraction or desire, but as far as I’ve seen people often substitute sex for intimacy.  It’s something to do to make up for the fact that they have nothing to say.  As if sexual attraction is what holds people together.”  Cas stared at the spot where their skin still connected, fingertips against his chest, and Dean followed his gaze.  “Which is fine, I suppose.  I can’t begrudge people something that makes them happy.  We live in a very sex-driven society, and I am…” Cas paused, like he was rolling the thought around in his head.  “It’s hard to understand someone like me.”

Dean looked back at Cas, meeting his eyes.  They stared at each other for a long moment before Dean reached up to cup his jaw, running his thumb across the rough stubble.

“Do you know how rare it is to find someone who will just… _touch_ me without it having to turn into something else?”  Cas asked. His voice was calm, but there was a storm behind his eyes.  Dean’s hand tightened against his jaw.  Not in a painful or even a possessive way.  He just thought it might reassure Cas that he was there.  That his touch came with no strings attached.  Dean really fucking liked this.  No one had ever… _ever_ made him feel like Cas did.  Quietly breaking at the seams.

“Can I see you?” Dean asked.  His mouth felt too dry.  He might have been pressing at the limits of his self-control, and the last thing he wanted was to fuck shit up now.  Still, he wanted it.  Wanted to share whatever the hell they were doing here.  Cas stared back at him silently for a moment, his expression unreadable.  He eventually pulled away, Dean’s hand slipping from his jaw.  Dean watched as Cas slowly undid the buttons of his shirt.

Cas undressed himself without any theatrics, but the slide of his shirt over his toned arms was still… insanely goddamn sexy.  They only spent the night at each other’s places on weekends, so this was only the third or fourth time.  Ever since the first night he’d kind of avoided looking at him because he thought it’d be easier that way.  

Now he let himself watch.  

When Cas pulled his undershirt over his head, Dean couldn’t help but stare at his hipbones, the trail of dark hair from his naval to below the belt of his pants.  The way Dean looked at Cas was nothing like the way Cas looked at him.  It wasn’t objective interest, wasn’t a catalogue of his curves and angles.  Every blemish, every quirk.  If Cas had pale scars marring his warm, olive skin, Dean wasn’t sure he’d notice.

Watching him like this, even just halfway unclothed and pulling at the latch of his belt, was enough to make the alpha in him unfurl, a possessive, heated push.  He felt his need expand in his chest, in the hollow of his throat.  Alongside a thunderous heartbeat he could feel behind his ears.  It felt like it took every fucking ounce of self-control he possessed not to just crush their bodies together.

He closed his eyes against it and took a deep breath.  His room smelled familiar, but Cas was there, too.  Standing a few feet away but also embedded in the sheets, combined with his own musky scent.  It was faint, but it was there.

Sometimes it was just difficult.  He’d not acted on his urges a dozen fucking times, because the way Cas touched him and fucking looked at him made him feel safe and okay and _right_ for the first time in what felt like too long, but it only made it worse the way he wanted Cas.  The way it just magnified everything.  He wanted him close, wanted to kiss him and mark him and sink into him for more reasons than just because the guy was goddamn attractive.  Maybe it was because for years the only form of intimacy he’d allowed himself was sex.  Cas was just… _something_ to Dean.  They’d been working at that something for a little while now, and it’d dug up under his skin.  Made it important, made it matter.  

It scared him because he still didn’t know if he could be what Cas needed, but he wanted to be.  Sometimes he just didn’t know if he could handle wanting Cas so badly knowing Cas didn’t want him the same way.

Jesus fuck his brain needed to shut up.  

“Dean?”

It took a few seconds, a few steadying breaths, but Dean finally composed himself.  He opened his eyes and realized Cas was staring at him, head cocked, arms down by his sides.  He’d pulled on the cotton sleep pants and Dean realized with a sinking feeling in his gut that he’d been fucking freaking out long enough for Cas to finish changing.  He was still shirtless, but he had his fist wrapped around a plain black tee.

“If this is difficult for you I can–”

“No,” Dean interrupted.  He crossed the small space between them and wrapped his hands around Cas’ biceps.  He could feel the muscle tensing and releasing under his grip.  Cas stared at him, impassive.  Calm.  “Sorry I was just… somewhere else.”

“I can smell it on you, Dean,” Cas said, his eyebrow slightly cocked.  Dean bit down the frustrated embarrassment.  Awesome.  Of course Cas could fucking smell it.  Dean Winchester’s own special brand of ‘horny alpha bastard’.

“The blood will return to my head,” Dean grinned, voice still pitched a little too low.  He rubbed his thumbs in circles over Cas’ skin.  “I’ll survive.”

Cas didn’t move much except to drop the shirt in his fist to the floor and put his hands on Dean’s hips, squeezing a little.  

Dean really looked at Cas this time.  His neck was long, unmarked, his collarbones pronounced.  He had a mole just up and to the right of his right nipple.  Which was fuckin’ cute.  Dean pulled back a bit and looked over his arms, sliding his hands down to Cas’ wrists and holding them away from his body.  He noticed a few very light scars, tiny little scrapes on his shoulders and one that wound from the outside of his bicep to the inside of his elbow.  It was so thin and white with age that Dean assumed it wasn’t anything of note.  Probably some cut from when he was a kid that hadn't healed quite right.

Cas as a kid.  Dean almost laughed.  He wondered if he’d been so put together back then.  He imagined a tiny version of Cas in a tiny version of his trench coat lording over the other children on the playground.

“What?” Cas asked.

“Nothin’,” Dean smiled, looking back up into his eyes.  He slid his hands the rest of the way down so they could lace their fingers together.  “We should go to bed.”  Cas nodded, his brow still furrowed in confusion but apparently willing to let it go.  

Dean pulled Cas onto the bed with him, shoving the covers down with his feet.  Once they were comfortable, Dean wasted no time in pulling Cas against his chest, and fuck just the feel of his skin pressed to Cas’ was intoxicating.  Warm and solid.  He buried his nose in Cas’ hair and breathed him in.  Cas relaxed into him, hands trailing over his hips to the dip in his lower back, fingertips tracing the ridges of his spine up between his shoulder blades.

They pressed their foreheads together, eyes closed.  Dean lost himself in the feel of his skin, his hand carding slowly through Cas’ hair.

“We should do something,” Dean said quietly.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I should take you out.  People do that, right?  Can’t just loiter around each other’s places all the time.”  Dean leaned in and kissed the edge of Cas’ nose before pulling back again.  Cas sighed and gripped at him tighter.  “I mean we’re like a fuckin’ couple, right?”

Cas laughed and Dean could feel his breath against his lips.  “What did you have in mind?”

“I dunno, man.  What do you like?”

“I enjoy museums… or plays.  I’ve never been to Navy Pier?”

Dean laughed and ran his hand through Cas’ hair again, tugging at it a little.  Cas groaned.  “You know that place is a fuckin’ tourist trap, right?  It’s only fun if you’re five years old and like shitty, overpriced food and keychains that say ‘I heart Chicago’.”

“There’s a Ferris wheel and the view of the skyline is apparently amazing,” Cas said, and Dean could hear the frown in his voice.  

“Alright,” Dean said.  “I’ll take you to the fuckin’ Ferris wheel but then we’re going out for drinks.  I know this awesome underground comedy club.”  

“That doesn’t sound horrible,” Cas teased, his words coming out slow and deep.  He was probably tired.  Dean felt that.  Just the prospect of keeping his eyes open was fucking exhausting at this point.

“Next weekend?” Dean asked.

Cas hummed in agreement, tilting his head until their lips brushed.  Dean closed the space, kissing him slowly.  Tasting him for the first time in what felt like too long.  He stopped after a couple seconds, only because he was afraid if he didn’t he wouldn’t be able to for a long time.  

“Sleep,” Cas mumbled against his lips.

“’Kay,” Dean answered, kissing him one more time before he relaxed, face tucked into the crook of Cas’ neck.

\--

Dean woke up pressed against heat.  Needy and fevered, a painful pleasure.  A leaden weight against his chest.  

The body was curved back against his own, bare skin slick with sweat, Dean’s limbs wrapped possessively around his waist and face buried in his hair.  He tightened his grip.  He breathed in deep, hips rolling against the small of his back.  Fuck.  Felt so fucking good, another sharp bite of _want_ lighting hotly at the base of his stomach, heat pooling between his legs.  He was dizzy with it, the cant of his hips and the fucking pressure against his cock, pleasure like wildfire blowing through his veins.

Closer.  He wanted, _needed_ to be closer.  The scent of Cas sucked into his lungs, buried beneath his ribcage.  Perfect and sweet and familiar.  He bared his teeth and dug his nails into Cas’ skin.  

 _Mine_ , he thought.   _Please_.

Cas stirred and Dean blinked, a sharp intake of breath that placed him, brought him further from fevered half-sleep. It wasn’t until Cas’ hand covered his own that Dean wrenched himself away, his heart beating so fast he couldn’t see straight.  Limbs still heavy with sleep.  

“Dean?” Cas asked, voice low and groggy.  

A sinking feeling ripped at Dean’s throat, tugged him down.  He lay on his back, not touching Cas but painfully, horribly aware of his position.  The need, the throb of his achingly hard erection.  His labored breath and the aggression twitching just under his skin.  Jesus fuck if he couldn’t even sleep next to Cas without… what the fuck kind of person was he?

Dean shut his eyes tightly, tried to will away his arousal.  The shame should have fucking done a good job of that, wiped away all thoughts of sex and heat, but fuck it’d felt so good and he couldn’t smell anything except the goddamn sweat on Cas’ skin.  Bare skin.

This was worse than waking up shaking and weak from a nightmare, Cas holding him and not asking him a damn thing about it because Cas must know what it’s like to keep shit bottled up.  He’d take that over this.

There was movement, a dip on the mattress beside him.  Dean winced before he opened his eyes, turning his head to see Cas’ silhouette above him, leaning over.  A hand came to rest on Dean’s shoulder, a stupidly comforting gesture.  He wanted to apologize but the words caught in his throat .  Made it hard to breathe.  

Cas didn't ask for words, didn't ask for anything.  He leaned down to kiss him instead, chaste and easy and literally doing nothing to help his current situation.  Dean’s hand reached up, though, wound into his hair.  He took everything Cas was willing to give him.  Comfort, affection.  The weight of just fucking _being_ there.  Dean kissed him desperately, nipping at his lower lip and filling his mouth with the heady flavor.

Cas pulled back just a little, just enough to separate their mouths.  Their foreheads were pressed together.  Dean’s breathing was erratic, his hand trailed down to Cas' neck, his palm a little slick and damp.  He could feel Cas’ pulse beating against his thumb.  It was calm.  He was so goddamn calm.

“Good dream?” Cas asked.  His voice was serious but Dean could sense the teasing there.

“Shut up,” Dean said, his voice thick and broken.  He couldn’t bite down the affection he felt for Cas.  Or the need.  He was too tired, too displaced to put up walls.  His heart hadn’t stopped hammering, and he really needed to fucking take care of this situation before trying to curl up again.  

“M’sorry,” he finally said.  Cas’ hand came up to cover his own, the one set against Cas’ neck.  He could see Cas more clearly as his eyes adjusted.  His expression was unreadable, maybe a slight pinch in his brow.  “Lemme up, I just gotta…” Dean didn’t finish the sentence.  He didn’t need to actually say out loud that he was gunna go fuck his fist so he could keep from sleep humping his boyfriend.

Cas gave him a strange look, his brow definitely furrowed.  Not in anger.  Dean couldn't scent any frustration on him.  He looked like he was thinking something over.  Dean just watched him, trying to keep his breathing steady.  Cas finally tightened his grip on Dean’s hand and pulled it away from his neck.  Dean let him guide his hand down, his blue eyes burning with determination and interest.  

When he felt his own hand pressed deliberately against the swell of his half-hard cock, he had no fucking idea what to think.

“Cas…” Dean choked out.  A question?  He had no fucking idea.  Cas’ hand pulled back from his and Dean mindlessly rubbed at his groin.  Just a little pressure to take the edge off.  He let out a sharp breath.  

“I want to see you,” Cas said, fucking calm as ever.  

Dean scented the air deliberately, and it gave nothing away.  Cas definitely wasn’t turned on, not like he'd expected anything different, but if earlier they had been pushing boundaries this was like taking a sledgehammer to them.  Was this uncomfortable for him?  It fucking had to be, right?  He rubbed himself again, his cock swelling and throbbing in anticipation.  Shit, Cas wouldn’t stop staring at him.

“Stop thinking so much,” Cas told him.  

“Kiss me,” Dean told him, in a rush of temporary madness.  Maybe later he would blame it on being half asleep and way too fucking turned on. “Or touch me, just somethin’.  Please.”

Cas leaned in easily and kissed him.  Dean groaned appreciatively into the contact, Cas’ lips soft and pliant locked with his own.  He took the opportunity to shove his pants and boxers halfway down his thighs.  His cock curved up against his stomach, the knot at the base already a little swollen.  He squeezed it as Cas nipped at his lower lip, running his fingertips up the shaft and over the sensitive head before finally taking it full in his fist.  

Once he started stroking himself, the kiss was mostly forgotten, but Cas stayed close.  He let Dean bury his face against his neck, breathe him in.  Dean focused on the way he smelled, on the weight of him pressed against his shoulder and chest.  Cas’ hand wound into his hair, tugging and raking his nails against his scalp.  No one had ever fucking petted him while he jacked off but he definitely didn't hate it.  His hand had never felt so good.  

He started fucking into his fist, hips twitching up into that dry heat, his wrist aching, pressure building in the base of his spine.  He couldn’t think anymore, couldn’t focus on anything but Cas and his hands and his hot breath across Dean’s cheek.

“Dean,” Cas said, breaking through the fog.  “Tell me when your close.”

“Fuck,” Dean choked, unable to articulate as he sped up, his palm sweaty and precome beading down over his knuckles.  He was already near the edge, his cock throbbing and heat coiling in his stomach.  “I’m – now.   Close.”  Dean felt Cas’ hand close over his, and he was so fucking shocked he stopped moving.  Chest heaving with a startled breath.  Cas just trailed his fingers down over the back of Dean's hand and wrapped his fist around the swollen base of his cock.  Pleasure shot through him, the knot way too sensitive.  Dean let go, giving Cas the room to take over.  

Stroking him quickly, Cas' jerky movements had him panting, winding him up, his limbs drawing in close.  The shock of Cas touching him like this was like a fucking shot of adrenaline, his heart beating too fast and every drag of skin magnified, sparks of electricity.  His mouth hung open.  Cas leaned in to kiss his bottom lip before moving to mouth at his neck, teeth dragging along the skin. He found himself winding his hand around the back of Cas' neck, running his fingers through the short hair.  Trying to give something to Cas, anything.

God he was so fucking close.  He needed more, just a little more.  

Cas sunk his teeth into the soft skin of Dean’s neck, not hard enough to break skin but bruising and possessive.  It snapped something in him.  Dean came with a shuddered breath.  Hot and quick and messy as Cas worked him through it, kissing his neck above the forming bruise.  Dean dropped his hips to the bed, sweat beading on his legs and chest and between his back and the mattress.  The sheets sticking to his skin.  

Cas kept tugging at him, hand trailing down over his oversensitive knot, throbbing dully at being denied its catch.  Dean grunted a little at his discomfort, a weird mix of blinding pleasure and pain.  He wasn't sure he liked it, but he'd take it.  As long as Cas was the one touching him.  Cas let up, though, giving the shaft one more squeeze as his orgasm faded.  His sticky palm rested against Dean's bare thigh.

“Fuck,” Dean breathed.  He was shaking, his body heavy and sated.  His mind clear.  He glanced over at Cas who was looking back at him with a strange expression.  His lips were swollen a little pink, but his eyes were the same clear blue they always were.  Unaffected.  It made Dean feel even more debauched by comparison.  “That was…”

“Interesting,” Cas finished.  A little quirk of his lips.

“You could say that,” Dean laughed, reaching up to cup Cas’ jaw.  Cas leaned into the touch, his eyes shutting.  “You okay?”

“Yes,” Cas said.  “As long as you enjoyed it.”

“You don’t have to do that, you know,” Dean frowned.  This suddenly felt strange and one sided.  He’d reciprocate in a fucking heartbeat if he thought that was what Cas wanted.  

“Making you happy makes me happy,” Cas said simply.

“Alright,” Dean said, dragging his thumb across Cas’ stubbled jaw.  He didn’t know how else to respond to that, he didn’t know how he felt about it.  He didn’t want to take anything from Cas that he couldn’t give back.  He couldn’t understand what Cas got out of it.  

Dean ran his fingers over Cas’ cheekbone, over his nose, to the hairs that curled over his ears.

“Let’s get cleaned up,” Dean said easily.  “Get some sleep.”

Cas grabbed Dean’s wrist with his clean hand and pressed a kiss to the heel of his palm, nodding in agreement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter actually ended up being about 11500 words when it was finished, so I split it into two chapters. The second chapter will be up tomorrow or Wednesday with at least one illustration. Thank you for your patience!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter Warnings:** Smoking, Alcohol Use, Sexual Content

 

After a weekend with Cas, getting back to the reality of his nine-to-five was like having a bucket of cold water thrown over him.  Couldn't worry about what was going on with them or where they stood.  He had to worry about reports and emails and faulty engine parts.

It definitely didn't help that Benny’s scent was strange.  It threw him off balance.  Dean had noticed it earlier, chalking it up to general early morning pissyness, but it was unmistakable now.  Sitting across from him in the little diner, the scent of grease and meat making his mouth water.  They were waiting on their usual lunchtime burgers.  Benny smelled tense and aggravated, his eyes tired and dull.

“So.  You an’ Novak, huh?” he asked, his drawl over pronounced.  The guy was fuckin’ beat.

“What?” Dean asked, his arms folded over the table.  He hadn’t talked to Benny about Cas.  They worked together, it was weird.  Kind of a conflict of interests.  “What about me and Cas?”

“C’mon, brother.  You an’ him been leaving the office at the same time for damn near a month , and don’t think I haven’t smelled him on you.”  Benny grinned, but it looked a little too put on and it just made Dean nervous.  “So what, he amazing in the sack?  Uptight bastards like him always end up a little kinky.  Gotta work through all that tension.”

Dean rolled his eyes.  Benny couldn’t be further from the truth.  “Man, it’s nothin’ like that.”

“It’s not, huh?” Benny asked, leaning back a little.  He reached up and scratched at his beard.  “What’s it like, then?”

“We’re just hanging out,” Dean said simply.

“Hanging out?” Benny pushed.

“We’re dating, alright?”

“Right, right,” Benny smirked, raising two thick hands in surrender.  “No need to get touchy, just checkin’ up on ya.  Worry about you, ya’ know?”

“Right,” Dean grinned.  Benny’s expression fell, and Dean stared at him.  “What’s goin’ on with you?”

“It’s uh,” Benny crossed his arms in front of his chest, his scent shifting to something Dean couldn’t immediately place.  It made him nervous.  “It’s Andrea.”

“I thought you told me she was doin’ better,” Dean said, leaning in.  Anxiety gripped at him.  Andrea was Benny’s pregnant mate, and a couple months back she’d gotten sick, almost lost the baby.  Benny hadn’t been doing too well but they made it through.  She couldn’t be getting bad again.

“She was, brother,” Benny told him, his voice weary.  “This weekend I had to rush her to emergency.  She’s only a month away from havin’ the kid and it’s rippin’ her apart.  Woke up the the smell of blood on the sheets, man.  Her shakin’ and pale as a ghost.”

“Fuck,” Dean muttered.

“She’s still there.  They want to see her to term, keep her in that damned hospital bed.  She can hardly walk herself to the washroom.  Can’t help but hate myself because I’m resentin’ the poor kid, what this pregnancy’s done to her.  She’s dyin’ in there and I can’t do a damn thing to stop it.”

“There’s gotta be something they can do,” Dean told him.  “Like medication or, damn, surgery?  Anything?”

“They could take the baby out now but it likely wouldn’t survive,” Benny said, a new level of resentment and exhaustion in his gruff voice.  “She refused.  Loves that kid too much.”

“You should be with her, man,” Dean said.  “Shouldn’t be at work or out to fuckin’ lunch with me like nothin’s wrong.”

“Think I’d be at work today if there was any other option?” Benny asked him, his tone hard.  “Need this job, need the money.  We’ve already got hospital bills we’ll be payin’ off well into our golden years.”

Dean frowned.  He couldn’t think of anything to say besides, “She’ll make it.  They’ll take care of her, alright?” And all Benny could do was nod in weary agreement.  He needed to believe that.  

They sat in silence until their food finally came, eating quickly and exchanging small catches of conversation about projects at work and other mundane shit.  

The two of them walked back to the office together, bumping arms and lost in the dim of traffic, nasty smelling sidewalks made worse by the growing heat of the summer.  A stark sense of reality settled over them.  When Benny asked about Cas again, Dean didn’t jerk around the conversation, just told him the truth.  It was new, a little complicated, but he was happy.  Cas made him happy.   Benny gave him a genuine smile because he knew better than anyone that Dean hadn’t really been that in a long time.  

When they got back to the office, they went their separate ways.  Dean back to his desk and Benny to his.  Cas was still locked up in his office, but Dean hoped he’d come out for a coffee or something so he could see him.  Just for a second.  Just long enough to settle the strange anxiety that had been building in him since his and Benny’s conversation.  

When Cas finally did emerge, Dean kinda wished he hadn’t.  He barely glanced at Dean, heading toward the other end of the large, open space.  The look on his face was one Dean had seen plenty of fucking times, that look like someone pissed in his cheerios and he was gunna bring down Hell on the person responsible.  Dean hoped he wasn’t heading toward the desk he thought he was, but shit, today wasn’t really throwing him any good pitches and so when Cas turned toward Benny, hunched over his desk, Dean wasn’t surprised.  His blood just ran cold.  

Jesus fuck Cas had the worst timing in the goddamn universe.  

He couldn’t really hear what Cas said to Benny, but he could hear the tone.  Quiet and charged, Benny having trouble keeping his voice down.  Benny might have said something that sounded like “more time”.  Eventually Cas turned back toward his office, Benny following suit, and Dean was about five seconds from following them both, pressing himself up against the closed door of Cas’ office and listening in.

Instead he waited, hardly paying attention to the content of his emails as he clicked through them, his heart beating just a shade too fast.  After about fifteen minutes Benny came out alone, his expression pinched.  A few heads turned toward him, and when he started marching in Dean’s direction Dean understood why.  Benny reeked of frustration, barely contained.

“You need to put a fuckin’ leash on that boy of yours,” Benny growled once he was close enough to talk to Dean, settling into the empty desk beside him.  Dean bristled at the words, scowling.

“Hey,” Dean warned.

“I told him I needed to extend the deadline for my project and he wouldn’t even goddamn listen to me.  Told me to watch my ass if I wanted to keep a job here, expects me to get through this shit by tomorrow morning.  I’m not even gunna get sleep much less go see my mate,” Benny kept his voice down, but just barely.  “Immovable, that one.  I don’t know how I’m gunna pull it off.”

Biting the inside of his lip, Dean frowned.  Then he nodded.  “Goddamn it, Cas,” he muttered to himself, pushing himself out of his chair and past Benny.  He felt his friend’s eyes on him as he made his way toward Cas’ office.  He didn’t even bother to knock before walking inside.  

Cas’ face was drawn, his hands stiff over the keys.  The scent in the air was harsh, Cas’ smell a little stronger and sweeter than usual, as if he had a fever, but Dean couldn’t be bothered to worry about it.  Cas could probably tell Dean was pissed without even looking at him.

“If this is about Benny, I know he’s your friend but I gave him a clear deadline –“

“What the hell, Cas?” Dean interrupted, shutting the door a little too quickly.  He was trying to avoid a scene but his coworkers weren’t exactly idiots.  They’d know something was up.

Cas looked up at him, then, his expression controlled.

“You know Benny’s been at the goddamn hospital all weekend, right?  He’s about this damn close to losing both his mate and the kid inside her,” Dean near snarled through the words, his shoulders tight.

“He never mentioned,” Cas told him with a frown, and Dean huffed in frustration.  

“Yeah well he’s havin’ a pretty rough go at it so maybe you can cut the guy a little slack,” Dean said, not feeling very fucking gracious toward him at the moment.  “You know, I get that this shit is important to you, but these are _people_ working for you.  Maybe you should fuckin’ listen to them once in a while.”

“Dean,” Cas said, starting to push himself out of his chair.  Dean raised a hand to stop him.

“I don’t care right now, Cas, just… fix it,” Dean finished, turning to leave.  If he didn’t get out now he’d probably go kiss him or something.  Despite his anger, he still wanted to be close to Cas.  How fucked up was that?  Better to leave now and maintain some of the damn high ground.  

When Dean walked out, Cas didn’t move to stop him.

\--

Dean lost himself for the rest of the day.

He tried to get as much work knocked out as he could.  Between his regular workload and trying to finish up his designs, which he was probably spending way more fuckin’ time on than he’d normally do just because people were going to actually see this shit, he felt like he was stretched too damn thin.  Right then he just let it bury him, though.  He felt frustrated and guilty at the same time, which was a fucked up combination.  He just hoped Cas would understand.

It was a little past five when Benny came by Dean’s desk, his briefcase in one hand and a huge stack of papers, a few personal effects, and a handbook in the other.  Dean’s stomach twisted up.  

“Did they fuckin’ fire you?” Dean choked, aggression already hot under his skin.

“No, no,” Benny assured him.  He’d probably be making a placating gesture if his arms weren’t full.  “Apparently Novak went to Henriksen, worked out a way for me to work from home till the babe comes.  Handed over the big project to some schmuck down the hall.  Usually I’d be pissed, but honest to God I’m relieved.”  Dean smiled at Benny, and Benny smiled back, his eyes soft.  “Novak said he’d be ridin’ my ass when I got back, though,” Benny laughed.  “Fuckin’ tight-ass ain’t too bad, but don’t tell him I said that.”

“Secret’s safe with me,” Dean grinned, chancing a glance over Benny’s shoulder to Cas’ office door.  “He in his office?”

“S’far as I know,” Benny sighed.  “I gotta head out.  I’ll be seein’ ya.”

“Alright, take care of Andrea.  Tell her I’m expecting some of her cherry pie when she’s back up.  No one in Chicago makes it better than her.”

Benny smiled at him, all teeth.  “Will do, brother.”  Benny nudged him on the shoulder before he turned and headed out of the office.  

Dean collected all his work into a neat pile, reaching out to touch his little toy Impala, rolling it a few inches on his desk.  He tried not to think of Sammy, but he missed him.  The sudden thought stung, and he shoved it away.  Pushing himself from his seat, Dean headed back toward Cas’ office.

Cas was packing up his briefcase, and there was that harsh scent again.  Dean wondered if Cas really was running a fever, and he let himself worry, let himself feel protective this time.  He felt shitty that he’d gotten mad, but he wouldn’t apologize for sticking up for Benny.  Guy had saved Dean’s ass more than once over the past few years.  Might have drunk himself to death.  Him and Charlie were the only real reasons he was okay now, relatively speaking.

“You feelin’ alright?” Dean asked, moving a little closer.  Cas didn’t look up at him, but he nodded in answer.  Dean sat himself on the edge of Cas’ desk, balancing on the balls of his feet.  “What you did for Benny… thanks.”  Dean wanted to run his fingers through Cas’ hair.  Make sure he was actually alright.

 

“I’m not heartless,” Cas said, his voice tired.  Dean reached out and placed a hand on Cas’ shoulder, squeezing a bit.  Cas finally looked up at him.

“I know you’re not,” Dean frowned.  “Will you come here?”

Cas sighed, but he moved between Dean’s legs, wrapping his arms around his waist.  Cas didn’t feel too warm, maybe a little, but his scent nearly knocked Dean over.  It reminded him of the day he’d caught Cas taking suppressants in the bathroom.  He could scent the omega on him, unmistakable with his nose pressed against Cas’ skin.  He felt a small growl vibrating in his throat.

“You headed out?” Dean asked, biting it down.  “Kinda early for you.  Give me a couple minutes to get my stuff together and I’ll drive you.”

Cas pulled back, Dean’s hands still propped on his hips.  Dean gave him a small squeeze.

“I think I’ll walk today.  It’s nice out,” Cas told him with a strange sort of detachment.

Dean frowned.  “You sure?” he asked, trying to keep Cas close to him.  It was the first time Cas had refused the offer since they’d started dating.  Especially with how they’d been that past weekend, the way Cas had opened up.  The fucking handjob that Dean still didn’t feel all that fucking great about even with Cas telling him it was fine.  He felt guilty.  The dismissal hit him harder than it should have.  “You know it’s not a problem.”

“No,” Cas said.  “It’s fine.  Finish your work.” Cas pulled away from him, then, turning back to his briefcase and snapping it shut.  Dean watched him carefully.  When Cas didn’t look back at him, Dean moved off the desk and headed toward the door.  

“I’ll uh, I’ll see you tomorrow, right?” Dean asked, one hand on the doorknob.

“Yes,” Cas nodded, his fingers latched around the edges of his case.  Dean wanted to ask if they were okay, but the words got stuck in the distance between them, unspoken.  Instead he turned the knob and left the cramped office and headed back toward his own desk.

\--

Cas didn’t make it to work the next day.  

Dean tried texting him half a dozen times but got no reply.  He called him during his lunch break and it went straight to voicemail.  He listened to a recording of Cas saying his name, more awkward and robotic sounding than the rest of the automated message.  It made Dean smile if only for a second.  Dean just told him to call back when he could, that he just wanted to know if he was alright.  Maybe he was busy puking his guts out, maybe the fever had gotten bad.  

After he got out of work Dean thought maybe he should stop by his place.  They were together, that wasn’t weird.  It probably wasn’t weird.  He ended up just shoving the idea aside, though.  If Cas wanted him there, he’d at least answer his damn phone.

God, he just hoped Cas wasn't pissed at him.  Or uncomfortable.  Whatever.

He went through the motions, finished up the second of three designs he was working on, the side of his hand dark with graphite.  He smoothed down the paper and set it in a clear plastic folder that Cas had given him to keep it from getting ruined before turning off the lamp beside his couch.  When he got to bed he buried his face in the pillow Cas used when he stayed over, and he could scent traces of him there.  Still, he slept fitfully.

When Thursday rolled around without any word from Cas, Dean went to Victor who told him Cas had called out for the entire week.  That he’d gotten the flu or some shit and was working from home.  Dean was frustrated that Cas couldn’t take two seconds to call him and let him know what was up, but if he'd contacted Victor, Dean figured that meant he was at least checking his emails.

When he got home that night he sent Cas a short email letting him know he was a jackass for ignoring him.  Then he sent another apologizing and telling him he was worried and to let him know if he needed anything.  The guy must have a fucking mental block for common courtesy or something.  Usually if you’re gunna up and disappear for a few days you let your boyfriend know.  Dean hadn’t really been in many relationships, but that was a given.

On Friday Cas finally called him.  It was late, past ten, and Dean had tried not to keep checking his email and his phone like a lovelorn teenager.  He'd been only mildly successful.  Dean nearly tripped to get to his cell, buzzing loudly on the coffee table next to his half-finished bottle of beer.

“ _Hello, Dean._ " Cas’ voice was tired and cracked, like he’d used it too much or not enough since Monday.  Still, hearing his voice was like taking the first gasping breath of air after nearly drowning.

“The hell have you been, man?” Dean asked, surprising himself with how calm he sounded.

“ _I was… I am indisposed,_ ” Cas told him, slightly agitated.  “ _I forgot to check my phone._ ”

“For… four days?” Dean asked.  Shit, if he hadn’t even been keeping track of his phone, what the hell else wasn’t he keeping track of?  Cas barely managed to eat well on a good day.

“ _Are you angry with me?_ ” Cas asked.  Dean could hear his breathing over the phone.  It was soft, but too fast.  It made his heart speed up.

“’Course not,” Dean sighed.  He ran his fingers through his hair.  “You gettin’ any rest?”

“ _Hardly_.”

“You working?” Dean asked.  Cas didn’t answer, and Dean couldn’t help but roll his eyes.  Guy never shut it down.  “So I’m uh, I’m guessing we’re off for plans this weekend.”

“ _I apologize_ ,” Cas said.  His breathing was a little harsher, the words coming out with difficulty.  Dean frowned.

“It’s fine.  Get some rest, alright?”  Dean licked his lips, his free hand set against the back of his neck.

“ _Okay_ ,” Cas told him tersely, strained.  “ _I should go._ ”  

Dean sucked in a breath.  He wanted to tell him he missed him, that he’s been worried fucking sick.  That he’d thought Cas was pissed at him over the Benny thing, or last weekend, just everything that had been rolling around in his head the past few days.  He’d never been good at really talking about shit, though, and by the time he’d even opened his mouth the line had gone dead.  

\--

Dean was sweating above a steaming pot of soup, his sleeves rucked up over his elbows.  The scent of onions, garlic and sugar, sharp pepper, bay leaf and thyme spread through the room, stuck in the thick, warm air around him.  He breathed it in, felt sweat dripping from his forehead to the edge of his mouth, darted out a tongue to lick it up.  

It tasted like salt.

The food was nearly done, Dean stirring it once more over the low heat before ladling it into a large, plastic container, filling it up to about half an inch to the brim.  Then he set the spoon aside on a napkin, reaching over the stove to turn the heat completely off.  He closed a plastic lid over the container, a metal lid over the pot.  

When he’d set the container aside, he turned to the bottle of vermouth he’d used for the recipe, unscrewing the cap and taking a long draft.  It was an odd, sharp bite that burned going down.  Then he set it back in his liquor cabinet, grabbed the food, his keys, and his leather jacket, and headed toward his front door.

The drive to Cas’ place took longer than Dean expected, the Saturday night traffic headache-inducing.  Gave him enough time to really start worrying about his decision to go over to Cas’ place.  He hadn’t exactly mentioned it to him.  The phone call was just weird, they hadn’t exactly parted on the best of terms Monday, and he was worried.  So fucking sue him.

Worst case, Cas would take the food and slam the door in his face.  He could live with that.

He took the stairs to Cas’ floor two at a time, the container of soup still warm between his hands.  When he got to Cas’ door he could hear the low beat of music seeping out from under the door.  More of that high-energy pop bullshit.  Dean smirked to himself and gave the door a hard few knocks so Cas could hear it over the noise.

He waited a few minutes, and when Cas didn’t show any signs of answering he knocked again.

“Cas!” Dean bellowed against the door, “It’s Dean.  Open up!  The hell you doin’ in there, throwin’ a sweet sixteen?”  Dean laughed to himself, he was fucking hilarious.

After a few seconds Dean scented the air, and to his surprise he could actually smell Cas through the door.  Except it wasn’t right.  Fuck, he smelled good.  Before he could process that, the door swung open, the agitating noise of Cas’ stereo pouring out into the hallway.  The scent of Cas was so strong Dean felt lightheaded.

Dean had enough presence of mind to see that Cas looked pissed, his eyes glazed over and his body flushed.  There was a lot of skin.  Cas didn’t have anything on but a tight, sleeveless undershirt and loose-fitting sweatpants that sat very, very low on his hips, shirt rucked up so he could see a sliver of his stomach.  Dean was pretty fucking sure he was going to pass out from how fast the blood was draining from his head to his dick.

Cas was in heat, _heavy_ heat.

The scent was intoxicating, made his head spin and his muscles twitch in agitation.  He tried to focus through it, he’d been around omegas in heat and not lost his shit before, but this was Cas.  _His_ Cas.  Cas smelling like sex and sweat and need, a scent that dug down right to the center of him and latched on with sharp claws.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Cas asked, his eyes wide.  There was active distress under the scent of his heat, not to mention the thick odor of stale cigarette smoke from inside the apartment and clinging to the sweat on Cas’ skin.  Dean focused on that, let it distract him from the way his body ached and begged, that fucking voice in his head screaming _mark_ and _claim_ , his teeth clenched so hard they might break under the pressure.

“Dean, did you bring me soup?” Cas asked him, a little of the frustration in his voice giving way to genuine surprise.

“You were sick,” Dean provided helpfully.  His hands clenched tight to the container as he looked Cas over again.  It’d only been five days since he’d last seen Cas but he actually looked thinner, and that bothered him.  “When was the last time you ate?”

Cas squinted at him, his lips parted as he breathed in just a little too deep, too fast.  His eyes were dark.  Cas could smell him responding.  Fuck, he _really_ shouldn’t be here.

“What day is it?” Cas asked.

“It’s Saturday,” Dean told him, frowning.

“Oh.  A… a few days, then,” Cas said, his voice worn.  Dean glared at him, his arousal forgotten in a wave of fierce protectiveness and frustration.  He might have growled, shoving his way past Cas into his apartment.  “Dean,” Cas warned, another wave of distress.  Dean shut his eyes, willed himself to be calm.

“I won’t touch you,” he said, his voice low.  “I swear, but I brought you food and I’m not leaving until you goddamn eat it.”  Dean opened his eyes to see Cas press his lips together, nodding curtly.  “Trying to fucking kill yourself?  The fever could burn you out if you don’t eat and drink anything.  You should know that.  How are you still upright?”

“I’m hydrating,” Cas snapped, closing the door behind them.

 Cas walked with a strange gait, and Dean tried to ignore the fact that it probably meant Cas was wearing a plug.  That mental image did absolutely fucking nothing to help their current situation.  _His_ current situation.  Jesus Christ he was going to die.  This was what would kill him.  There would be no fucking blood left in his head.  Here lies Dean Winchester, survived by his unbelievably hot boyfriend who still, three days later, hasn’t stopped laughing.

Dean bit the inside of his cheek as he headed toward the kitchen.  Cas tried to follow him, but Dean could not fucking have it.

“No,” Dean told him tersely.  “You can’t be near me right now.  Just… couch.  Now.”

Cas glared at him for a second before relenting, walking slowly back to the living room.  Dean heated up the soup in the microwave, smelling Cas’ cigarette the second he lit up.  Cas was not a frequent smoker.  The only time he’d see him with a cigarette before this was the day he’d punched Dean, and he kind of got the idea that it was something he did to calm down.  Christ, from the smell of the place he’d been chain smoking since Monday. 

Dean crossed his arms over the counter, leaning forward till his forehead was pressed against the wooden cabinet.  God, he could scent Cas everywhere.  He pressed the heel of his palm against his painfully hard erection through his jeans.  However Cas’ body was responding, Dean knew he didn’t share his heat.  He'd been painfully clear on that front. Dean needed to get himself under fucking control. 

He waited for the timer to go off, pulling out the now steaming soup from the microwave and heading back toward the living room.  Cas was at the window, flicking ashes into an overflowing ashtray on the ledge.  Dean couldn’t help but stare at him for a second before taking the soup to the coffee table.  At the sound of porcelain hitting wood, Cas turned.  Dean just pointed at the bowl.

“Eat,” Dean told him, his voice gruff. 

Fuck, all he wanted to do was pin Cas against a wall and scent him, bite him.  Lick the sweat from his skin, let his fever burn them both up.  Just the fucking thought of it was enough to make him bare his teeth, and he needed to take care of the situation _now_ before he got too close.

He turned and headed toward the bathroom, leaving Cas with his food.

Once the door was shut and locked, Dean hunched over the sink, scrambling with his belt buckle.  He tugged his pants and boxers down far enough that cock fell free, harder than he’d been in fucking years, and before he could even give a goddamn thought to what he was doing, he wrapped his hand around himself and squeezed.  Fuck, the pressure.  His legs shook, his breath coming out in aborted gasps.  He pulled at it, his knot swelling, his head dizzy.  He was at the edge of his orgasm faster than he’d ever been in his fucking life.  He might have gasped Cas’ name when he came, spilling himself over the counter.  He pumped himself through it, shaking as sweat dripped down the side of his face.

He slumped against the counter, bracing himself on his clean hand.  The world came tumbling back, barreling him over.

Dean avoided his reflection, grimacing down at the mess.  Fuck.  He wished he were better than this.  This was ridiculously embarrassing.  He cleaned the counter as quickly as he could, scrubbing it down with a rag and some hand soap, before he turned to the door. Dean found himself leaning up against it, forearm braced over his head, knocking his forehead over and over against the wood.  It took him a couple minutes to suck it up and finally walk back out into the hall. 

It was quiet, the stereo turned off.  Dean turned back into the living room to see Cas sitting on the couch, hunched over.  He had his forehead pressed into his hand, his cigarette between his fingers, burning down to the filter.  His other hand was down between his legs, the heel of his palm against his groin.  Dean could hear the small, frustrated hitch of his breath.

“Cas?” Dean asked, his voice worn a little thin. 

Cas grunted, turning his head so Dean could glance at his expression. His eyes were shut, his frown deep.  His lips barely parted.  He did not look happy.   Dean walked over to him, and the scent was still there but it was easier to ignore.  The sight of Cas flushed and nearly touching himself did things to Dean, but he could shove it all aside.  He felt level.

Dean stood across from Cas, down at the smoking cigarette butt, his mop of dark hair and the ashes that clung to it.  The soup was set on the coffee table, half eaten, so at least Cas had made an attempt. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” Cas told him, the words pulled from him with difficulty.  “You shouldn’t see me like this.”

“I won’t…” Dean stopped, licking his lips.  “Cas, I promise I would never do anything you didn’t…”

“I know,” Cas interrupted.  He pulled back, the ashes falling from his hair to the carpet.  He stared at the cigarette and frowned.  “I am not afraid of what you are.  My issues are a bit more internal.”  Cas' hand was shaking, and he must have realized because he grabbed his wrist, held it steady.  “I can smell you, and I _want_ you,” Cas growled, his knuckles going white.  Dean could hear the disgust in his words, and he didn’t know how to deal with that.  “But I don’t even know if it’s you or if I’d just let any alpha with a knot take me.  I want to get on my knees and be what I was built for.  I feel empty.  Like I’m half a person,” Cas said, finally tilting his head up to look at Dean.  His pupils were so dilated that Dean could hardly see more than a strip of blue surrounding them.  “I know who I am outside of this, and I hate that it strips me of that.  That I no longer feel like I have any control over what I want.”

“Cas…”

Cas cursed and tossed his cigarette aside, hitting the wall and falling to the floor.  He reached down between his legs and pressed hard against the strain of his pants, cursing again at the pressure.  Dean took a deep breath, and he wanted to touch him.  Not to press him up against something, but to run his hand through his hair, wrap his arms around him.  Cas wasn’t okay and Dean didn’t know how to help him.

“It’s a pointless biological function,” Cas said, his voice low and breathy.  “Omega males don’t even have the ability to carry children, but my body still screams at me to breed, to submit.  It’s disgusting.”  Dean flinched at the words.  It was an old ideal.  Omega men weren’t built to carry a child to term, but their bodies still flooded with hormones once a month or so.   A long time ago that meant being on the lowest rung of society, bitch males, not fit to mate properly, nothing more than an object of sex to men.  The children they were sometimes able to make with women were considered weak.  People who still held onto those ideals openly weren’t exactly well-received, but that didn’t mean they no longer existed.

“You seriously believe that?” Dean asked, his mouth dry.  He remembered what Cas had said about his mother, about her feelings over what he was, and he wondered if those were her words in Cas’ mouth.  Cas didn’t answer him, his shoulders stiff and head bowed over so Dean could see the line of his spine, a few jutted knots of bone under his skin.  “There’s nothing wrong with you,” Dean told him emphatically.

Cas made a ‘tch’ noise, his shoulders dropping a little.

“Cas, look at me,” Dean told him, dropping slowly to his knees at Cas’ feet so he was on level with him.  God, he smelled amazing, Dean was in danger of getting hard again.  Cas’ distress kept him from it, though.  He couldn’t think about that right now.  Cas lifted his head, and Dean ignored the hand that was still rubbing slowly over his groin, trying to stave off the need that was bleeding through him.  “There is nothing wrong with you,” Dean told him.  “There’s nothing wrong with this.  Your body still doesn’t control you, but you don’t have to fuckin’… be ashamed of it, alright?”

“I don’t feel like myself,” Cas told him helplessly.  Dean frowned and reached out slowly, placing a hand on the side of Cas’ head, fingers threaded through his hair.  He was sticky with sweat, his skin overwarm.

“I know I promised I wouldn’t touch you,” Dean said.

“It’s fine,” Cas told him, closing his eyes and leaning into the touch.  “This is fine.  Please don’t stop.”

“If you hate it so much why are you only on the pills?  There are shots that can stop your heats completely.”

“I can’t,” Cas told him quietly.  “My first heat was terrifying.  I had no idea what to do, my mother was mortified.  She locked me in my room for days until it passed.   After that she got me on pills to stop it from happening again.  Told me they would _fix_ me.  She didn’t want anyone… her family, her friends… to know what I was.”

“You can’t give suppressants to someone that young,” Dean growled.  The hand is Cas’ hair was as gentle as he could manage.  He ran his fingers through it, tried to give Cas some measure of comfort. 

“I am very aware of that,” Cas said, not without a hint of derision.  “She didn’t even use them properly.  I didn’t have another heat until I was seventeen.  It lasted for two weeks.  I didn’t even become aroused… it was just _pain_ and _fever_.”  Cas took a deep breath, leaning forward until his forehead was pressed with Dean’s.  Cas scented the air openly, like the smell of Dean was somehow calming.  Dean could sense another low wave of arousal push out from Cas’ skin, his own mouth dry as a bone.  “It damaged me.  I have to be on suppressants, but I need to have my heat regularly or there’ll be… complications.”

Dean had honestly never wanted someone he’d never met ripped limb from limb before, but Cas’ mother lit that fire in him.  How fucked up do you have to be to do something like that?

“I’m sorry,” Dean told him, his voice wrecked.  Cas’ face drifted lower, nosing up under his chin, his lips dragging along the column of his neck.  He didn’t kiss him, didn’t nip or lick the skin.  Just settled in like it was where he belonged.  Dean held Cas against him, his fingers still working through his hair.  “She was wrong.  She’s the fucked up one, not you.”  Dean turned his head so he could press his nose against Cas’ skin.  Fuck, he couldn’t stay like this long.  He smelled too sweet, too good.  “I think you’re...” Dean took a shaky breath, "... awesome, in the biblical sense," he finished, his voice low and his lips quirking in a smile.

“Right, an aggressive omega without a sex drive that’s also got severe gender identity issues.  I am quite the catch,” Cas bit hotly against Dean’s skin.   “God, you smell good.” 

Dean pulled Cas’ head back from his neck, his blue eyes lidded and dark.  “Cas, I mean it,” Dean told him seriously.  Cas’ face fell slightly, his eyes roving over Dean’s.  His hand had found its way to the soft fabric of Dean’s shirt, balling his fist and tugging.

“You got yourself off in my bathroom,” Cas told him darkly.  Dean stared at him like a fucking deer in headlights.  “So you wouldn’t try and have sex with me.”

Dean shrugged his shoulders helplessly, about two seconds from extracting himself from Cas’ grip and bolting for the door.  Can you even apologize for shit like that?

“I keep thinking you’re going to eventually stop being so wonderful, but it never happens,” Cas told him, tugging on his shirt again. Dean met his eyes, and there was bare want in his expression.  Cas had looked at him a lot of ways, but this was new.  It set something on fire in Dean, made him ache to get closer.  He’d never wanted Cas so much, and he felt like he spent every fucking second wanting him.

“I’m not…” Dean started, but Cas cut him off with a kiss, needy and fevered.  Nothing like the kisses they normally shared.  Cas kissed him like he was lost and Dean was his salvation, like if he didn’t taste him right now he would die from wanting it.  Dean was painfully hard again, his hand gripped at the back of Cas’ neck, nails digging just barely into the skin.  Fuck, Cas tasted like heaven even between the smoke on his breath. 

When Cas pulled back from the kiss, Dean had to struggle to breathe again.

“I really need to go,” Dean told him.  It was one of the hardest things he’d ever said.  Every inch of his body screamed to keep Cas close.

“If you asked me, I would say yes,” Cas told him, staring at him with wide, lust-blown eyes.  Dean nearly whined.  He dipped his head forward, dragging his teeth along the edge of Cas’ stubbled jaw, feeling Cas wind his hand into his hair.  Dean nipped at the skin, filled himself up with the sweet taste of his sweat.  When he found Cas’ pulse, his neck arched and bared for Dean, he bit down, not even hard enough to bruise, but the gesture told Cas the word.  The one winding through his head, set his heart beating way too fast. 

 _Mine_.

Then he pulled himself back, kissed the spot where his teeth had been, Cas sighing at the pressure.  “I know,” Dean growled against his skin, desperate sounding.  “I know you would.”  Dean forced himself to stand up, Cas staring back at him with surprise, his hand falling free from Dean’s shirt.  Dean cupped his face, ran a thumb over the small red mark he’d left on his neck.

“You really are beautiful,” Cas told him seriously, his eyes a little too wide, his brow furrowed.  “I’m afraid I don’t really see you the way I should.”

“Cas, you see me better than anyone,” Dean told him. 

Dean let go, because if he didn’t do it now he wouldn’t ever leave.  If they were ever going to do this, it wouldn’t be like this.  Not when Cas could hardly refuse him. 

Dean grabbed his jacket and headed toward the exit, feeling Cas’ eyes on his back until he shut the door between them.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter Warnings:** Sexual Content, Discussion of Suicide and Self Harm, Some Graphic Imagery

Dean didn’t sleep well.

He couldn’t get Cas out of his head, the flush of his skin and the feel of his soft mouth pressed to Dean’s neck.  The empty, helpless timbre of his voice.  The scent of heat and tobacco still clung to Dean’s hands and the skin of his teeth, seeping slowly into his pores.  Dean should shower, he knew he should shower, but he’d just crawled into bed instead, unwilling to part with it.

Cas, he thought.  His Cas.  Cas who opened up slowly, who worked too hard, who only smiled when he really meant it.  Cas who held him in exchange for nothing, who touched him when he needed to be touched and kissed him like he was worth something.  All Dean could do was leave, despite how worried he was.  Despite all the confessions that made Dean feel sick.   He left, which was all he’d ever been able to do.  He didn’t trust himself to be good for him.  Couldn’t stay to hold him, comfort him.  Talk to him.  He couldn’t be the man Cas needed or deserved.  

Because really, how long until _what_ he was won out over _who_ he was?  How long before he fucked this up, too?

Poisonous thoughts had a way of compounding on one another, they built and towered until Dean was left feeling trapped between their shadows.  He lay on his side, thumbed through old texts on his phone.  Somehow, mindlessly, he found himself dialing a familiar number.  He stared at it in the dark until the numbers were seared into his retinas, a ghost image that flashed across his vision when he blinked.

He felt suddenly small.  These were things longer buried, more deliberately avoided.  He tried to imagine Sam’s voice, what he might say if Dean had the balls to actually make the call.  If his little brother might scream, or cry.  Or worse, not care.  

Dean just drifted.  He could feel heat pressing down against his skin when he closed his eyes, hear his mother’s voice, and Sam’s laugh.  He could remember his father’s calm, watchful gaze.  Happy things turned bleak and framed in fog.  The memory felt muted.  Something that must have happened to someone else, not him.  Something he knew he didn’t deserve.  

He’d been running for such a fucking long time.  He was still running, but tonight he was flayed, skin peeled back, nerve endings exposed and raw and screaming.  He’d been running with wounds for so long he wasn’t sure anyone was following him anymore.

He didn’t know why he thought about it now, about the pain he caused, all the phone calls he never made or things he never said.  Once he started really thinking about it he couldn’t seem to stop.  

He wished Cas were there.  He wished he could bury his face in the crook of his neck, hold their chests flush and feel the steady beating of his heart.  He wanted to trust himself enough to keep Cas close.  He wanted so fucking badly to be enough for him.

When he slept, he dreamt of metal and blood and all the things he couldn’t save.

\--

The office was quiet when Dean walked in, bleary eyed and clutching a foam cup of cheap coffee.  He sipped at it, cringing at the bitter flavor.  He hadn’t even bothered to put in sugar.  At least it was vile enough to wake him, the heady scent strong enough to knock someone over.

Cas’ office door was closed, which was strange because for the past week it’d stayed open and empty.  Often Cas stayed late at work, but he didn’t usually come in early.  The guy hated mornings, hair a mess and grumbling and twisting his legs in the sheets.  The mental image made Dean smile, even as his heart sped up anxiously, a nervous excitement balling up in his throat.

He ignored the door for now, making his way to his desk and setting up his briefcase against his chair.  He booted his computer while he sipped slowly on the coffee, nearly gagging and eventually deciding to just finish it off as quickly as he could.  Heat pooled in the center of his chest and stomach as he emptied the cup, gulping and eyes watering.  God, he was such a baby.  Cheap, black coffee was just fucking disgusting.

Dean clicked through his emails, at least two dozen new in his inbox since he’d checked last night.  Fuck it.  It was too early for this shit, he could barely make out the words, blurring around the edges.  It washed over him, pointless white noise.  He’d rather work on his designs than go through another day of this.  He didn’t get the same satisfaction from answering emails and writing up reports as he did from fine tuning his drawings, the drag of graphite on paper as he pieced the machine together, an intricate puzzle of his own design.

He couldn’t let himself get so complacent in his new project.  He knew it was a temporary thing.  Cas had given this to him, seen something that no one else had, and he would be grateful for that until the day he died.  Now that he had a taste of what it might be like to actually do it, though, to design with the intent of actually creating something, it was hard to let those pipe dreams stay just that: Dreams.

Dean sighed, running his fingers through his hair, scraping his nails along the back of his neck.  He couldn’t ignore the door to Cas’ office forever.  He didn’t want to.  He needed to make sure he was alright.  More people were walking into the office space now, in twos and threes, muttering over cups of strongly brewed coffee.  Dean pushed himself up from his desk and made his way past them for Cas’ office.

His fist hovered over the door before Dean reconsidered, instead reaching down to twist the knob and walk in.  Cas looked exhausted, his hair wilder than it usually was at work.  He had a fucking thermos of coffee which Dean had to try not to laugh at.  Dean wondered if Cas could function without caffeine.  

“Hey,” Dean muttered, his voice low and dry from rough sleep and disuse.  Cas looked up at him, something unrecognizable flickering behind his eyes before he looked past Dean.

“Close the door,” Cas told him.  His own voice was weary, but commanding.  Dean didn’t hesitate to follow instruction, merely turning to throw the door shut with a small click.  When he turned back Cas was feet away from him, his eyes trained directly on him.  He felt naked under that gaze, so completely vulnerable.

“You okay?” Dean asked, because he had to know.  

Cas stared at him for a moment longer before he moved, a quick nod of his head as he crushed his body against Dean’s.  His back hit the closed door, Cas’ arms winding around his waist like Dean might disappear any moment.  Cas nuzzled his face in against his neck as Dean wrapped his arms around his broad shoulders, one hand threading its way through Cas’ mess of dark hair.  God, it felt so good to hold him.  To have him close.  To not feel so out of fucking control.

“Come home with me tonight,” Cas said against his neck, a kiss pressed to his burning skin.  Dean nodded against him, holding him tighter.  He kissed Cas’ temple, his nose brushing against his hair as he breathed him in.  

“Sure about that?  It’s a school night,” Dean laughed.

“Please,” Cas said seriously, ignoring his joke.  It was sobering, the smile falling from Dean’s lips, replaced with something softer.  It’d been more than a week since he’d been able to hold Cas like this and it almost hurt how much he’d missed it.  The emotion that settled in him at that moment felt impossibly heavy, whatever it was he felt for Cas, how much he didn’t want to let him go.  Fuck.

 _Fuck_.

They stayed like that for what felt like hours, but more likely was only a few minutes.  The air was thick with their scent, accompanied by the soft whirr of the computer and their quiet breathing.  He didn’t want to ever lose this.  He wanted Cas to feel safe, to feel okay.  Wanted him to know that he was perfect and adored.  He didn’t want Cas to hate himself or feel wrong anymore.  God, what he wouldn’t give to make him happy.

Cas finally tried to pull back from the embrace, Dean struggling to let him.  He wasn’t ready.  Cas didn’t move far, though, just enough to look at him, his tired eyes narrowed, his thumbs brushing the small of Dean’s back.  It was unfairly soothing.

“Dean,” Cas said, his head tilting to the side just a little.  “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Dean told him, the hand in the Cas’ hair trailing down to the nape of his neck.  He moved it freely over his warm skin, around to his throat and up under his jaw.  Cas let him, arching his neck to give Dean better access.  His thumb brushed the edge of Cas’ lips, dragged along his stubble to his ear.  “I uh, it’s been a long week,” Dean said lamely.  

Cas frowned at the words, his hands moving from Dean’s waist to cup his jaw.  Cas ran a thumb across his bottom lip, and Dean could fucking feel himself trembling.  Cas could unravel him with the smallest touches.  He was so present, so fucking solid.  He made Dean feel… he made Dean _feel_.

The more he was with Cas, the more he realized how cut off he’d been.  How thick a wall he’d built between himself and everything around him.  It’d been that way ever since he’d walked out on his family, even back when he was still raw and bleeding.  He’d been unable to face his sins, running from them rather than allowing himself to be buried by them.  His presence back in Sioux Falls would have only made things harder for the people he loved, his words slowly losing meaning, his apologies and regret pointless.  He was a fucking coward, and he knew it.  

Losing them had been like losing part of his soul, but Cas made him feel whole again.  He felt alive, he felt almost worthy.

Before Dean could even think of what to say, Cas leaned in to kiss him.  Dean whimpered into the touch, surprised, overwhelmed.  Dean clutched at him, tried to keep himself under control, keep calm, keep it chaste and sweet and slow, but then Cas nipped at his bottom lip, tugging and pulling, and Dean felt lost.  He felt like he was drowning.

“Please stop holding back so much,” Cas said against his mouth, nipping at his lips again, swollen and quivering.  “You are far more afraid of yourself than I am of you.  I need you to believe me, I need you to trust me.”

“I do,” Dean said, breathless.  His heart felt like it was going to beat out of his chest.

“Liar,” Cas growled.  “Dean, you give me everything I need and ask for nothing in return.  Kiss me the way you _want_ to kiss me.”  

Dean let out a nervous breath before he felt Cas’ hands tight on his shoulders, shoving him hard against the door and slotting them together.  Oh, Jesus Christ.  Cas was kissing him again, hard, his hands gripping at Dean’s biceps, nails digging into his skin through his stiff cotton shirt.  He tried, he put up a valiant fucking effort for about ten seconds, but he couldn’t take it.  Cas tasted too good, was kissing him wildly, his body a heated weight against his own.  

Dean felt a growl pull out of his throat, his hands finding Cas’ hips and gripping him way too tightly.  Cas smiled against his mouth before Dean shoved at him, turning them, switching their positions so Cas was the one with his back against the door, Dean’s arms and legs boxing him in.  Dean nipped at his neck first, let his teeth drag along the skin as he made his way to Cas’ mouth, soft and sucked pink.  

Dean kissed him needily, biting and tugging and tasting.  Cas ran his fingers through Dean’s hair, pulling him closer, letting him take what he wanted.  God, he was perfect, and Dean knew he was the unraveled one.  He was the one who needed this, needed to kiss and take and breathe him in.  He needed Cas so fucking much it hurt every time his lips left Cas’ skin.  He wanted to give him everything.  

“I missed you,” Dean told him between kisses, their foreheads pressed together.  Cas stared at him with wide, clear eyes.  He wasn’t turned on but he looked fucking happy and Dean would take that.  He would cling to it like a dying man clings to his last few seconds of breath.  As long as Cas didn’t hate touching him, because he couldn’t handle that.  It would break him.  “You fucking scared me, man,” he confessed, his heartbeat throbbing in his jaw.

“I’m sorry,” Cas told him, “I’m sorry.”  He leaned in to kiss him again, soft against his sensitive, trembling mouth.

“S’okay,” Dean told him quietly, the racing of his heart slowing with their chests pressed together.  He accepted Cas’ calm, took some of it for himself.  He shut his eyes and buried his face into the crook of Cas’ neck.  “Wish we didn’t have to work today.  Just want to crawl in bed with you and sleep.”

It was such a mundane request, but it felt like he’d just confessed to so much more.  It scared him how much he wanted that, every single day, to fall asleep with Cas’ skin pressed to his own.

“After work we can do that,” Cas promised him, running his fingers up and down Dean’s spine, making him shiver.

“Okay,” Dean told him quietly.  “Sounds fucking perfect.”

They held each other for too long, the noise outside the door forgotten and unimportant.  Cas was the one who finally pulled away, kissing Dean once more at the edge of his mouth, brushing his nose over his cheek.  This was all Dean needed, all he really wanted.  Cas gave it to him so easily.

“I have to get to work.  I’m behind,” Cas told him, not without a little remorse.  He didn’t want Dean to leave, either, and thank God for that.

“I know,” Dean told him, letting their bodies finally part.  He wanted to say more.  There was something itching at the back of his throat, clawing at his tongue and beating behind his teeth.  Somehow, he held it back.  “See you tonight.”

“Good,” Cas smiled, and Dean smiled back, finally turning to leave.

\--

Cas’ apartment was clean, but the scent of tobacco still clung to the carpet.  Dean didn’t hate the smell, but it unsettled him.  It just reminded him of the week Cas had spent there, locking himself away.  Hiding what he was because he couldn’t even bear to face it himself.  He gripped Cas’ hand as they made their way toward the couch.

“Do you want to watch a movie?” Cas asked, squeezing his hand and turning to Dean.  Dean smiled easily, leaning in to kiss him before settling down on the couch.

“Whatever you want,” Dean told him, missing the feel of Cas’ hand in his own as soon as they parted.  Cas moved to his television, surveying the collection of DVD’s on the wooden shelves beneath it.

“How about _A Streetcar Named Desire_?” Cas asked, picking it out and waving the box around for Dean’s inspection.  Dean just smiled and nodded.  A Brando flick.  He couldn’t say no to that.  Fuck, he was tired, though.  He just wanted to curl up with Cas.  He didn’t care much about what they watched.  Cas could put on episodes of _Say Yes to the Dress_ and Dean wouldn’t complain.  

Cas just nodded back and put the disk into the player.  Once the movie was on Cas moved back toward him.  Dean grabbed for him greedily, taking him against his chest and burying his face against his neck.  They curled up together on the couch, spooning, Cas cocooned in his arms.

“Might fall asleep,” Dean told him quietly after a few minutes, kissing his neck.

“That’s okay,” Cas replied.  He covered Dean’s hand, lacing their fingers together over his stomach.  Dean closed his eyes and let the sound of the movie wash over him.  After a while, Cas spoke again, quiet and serious.  “Did you not sleep well?”

Dean shook his head slowly, his forehead brushing against Cas’ hair.

“Will you ever tell me?” Cas asked.  Dean opened his eyes, surprised at the question.  He was talking about his nightmares, Dean knew that.  He was asking about the things that kept him awake at night.  Cas had never pushed him for information before, but it was expected, right?  He couldn’t put up with Dean’s silence on the matter forever.  Still, it felt too sudden, too soon.  Dean hadn’t even talked to Benny or Charlie, and they’d been the ones to see him through the worst of it.  “Sorry,” Cas said quietly.  “I just wonder.  I can’t help it.”

“I’ll tell you,” Dean said, his hands shaking a little.  “I just… not now.  I’ve never…”

“It’s okay,” Cas said.  He turned on the couch awkwardly until he was facing Dean, their legs tangled together, barely a foot of free space between their chests.  “You don’t have to tell me anything, it’s just… you carry that weight like you deserve it.  You don’t.”

Dean flinched at the words, and Cas’ expression fell.  His hand reached up to stroke Dean’s jaw.  “You don’t know that, Cas,” Dean said bitterly, wanting to recoil.  His culpability was never actually in question, and that was the part that stung.  That was blood on Dean’s hands and no one else’s.  Cas had too much faith in him.  He offered forgiveness of sins he didn’t understand, couldn’t comprehend.  Dean couldn’t accept it.

“I know you,” Cas told him quietly, leaning in to kiss him.

Dean nodded helplessly into it, kissing him back without any heat, feeling weighted down, leaden against the cushions.  This was the last thing he wanted to think about.  Thankfully, Cas didn’t speak again.  Dean closed his eyes and focused on Cas’ body, his breath across his parted lips, the drone of the movie neither of them seemed to care much about.  

Cas’ hand trailed slowly over his skin as he tried to relax, letting himself fall into dreamless sleep.

\--

Dean woke what felt like hours later.  The apartment was quiet and dark except for the television, the dull grey light from the title screen blinding the edges of Cas’ pale silhouette.  Dean felt a hand on his jaw, fingertips trailing up and down the column if his neck.  He blinked away the sleep in his eyes, leaning into the touch.

Cas was watching him, he could feel the weight of his gaze even if he couldn’t see his eyes just yet.  They were still facing each other, his arm slung over Cas’ waist while his fingers drew circles across his back.  Cas let out a small huff of warm breath over Dean’s mouth, and Dean couldn’t help himself.  He leaned in and kissed Cas, a slow, desperately soft kiss.  Their noses brushed as their lips parted, only to draw back in on one another.  There was no build to it, just a meeting of mouths, over and over in the dark.  

“We should go to bed,” Cas said against his lips.  Dean just nodded and kissed him again, sucking his lower lip into his mouth and running his tongue over the soft, sensitive flesh.  Cas’ fingers tightened on his jaw as Dean pulled away, laying one more soft kiss to the edge of his mouth.

“Okay,” Dean said, finally moving to push himself into a sitting position.  His muscles ached as he stretched, stiff from sleep.  Cas offered him a hand getting off the couch, and Dean couldn’t say no to that.  He didn’t really need the help, but he would take every opportunity to touch Cas that he could.

They took turns in the bathroom, brushing their teeth and scrubbing their faces with warm rags.  When Cas came out with a bit of toothpaste stuck to the edge of his mouth, Dean laughed and wiped it away with his thumb.

Once they were in Cas’ bedroom, the air thick with the scent of clean linen and more books, vanilla and brick and mortar, Cas turned to face him.  His hands slid under Dean’s shirt, his nails scratching at the skin of his hips and sides.  It felt fucking amazing.  Cas burned a little hotter than Dean and his hands were warm.  They retreated eventually, moving to the buttons of his shirt, undoing them with a strange sort of determination.  Dean watched him for a moment, trying to figure out what this was.

“Cas,” Dean said, watching Cas’ brow knit together as he struggled with the last button.  “I’m not a kid, you don’t have to undress me like one.”

The indignant, frustrated look Cas gave him was unexpected.

“I’m not undressing you like a child,” Cas told him, an edge to his words.  “I’m undressing you like a lover."

"Oh," Dean breathed, his heart racing.  

Cas pushed the button-up down off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.  Dean shivered in the open air.  It wasn't cold, not even close.  The air felt constricting, Cas' body both too close and too far from his own.  Dean could scent him, breathe him in, his skin warm and sweat still clinging to the fabric of his shirt.  Cas was calm, centered.  Deliberate.  He touched Dean reverently, his fingertips gliding over the veins in his forearms and under the thin cotton of his short sleeves.  Shit, how could he be turned on just from this?  Heat pooled raw and uncaring between his legs.

His hands made their way to the hem of Dean's shirt, fingers edging up under it to touch the soft skin of his stomach.  He pushed the shirt up, Dean raising his arms so Cas could rid him of it completely.  Dean wondered if Cas would take off his pants too.  He might not survive it, but fuck he wanted it.  Cas didn't move away from his chest immediately, staring at him in the low light, touching over his ribs, his stomach, low on his hips.  Cas kissed the hollow of his throat, down the center of his chest.  He marked the way with barely there drags of teeth, setting Dean on fire.

"Cas," Dean said, the name coming out sounding more like a plea than anything else.  He thought he knew where this was headed, his body was basically screaming for it.  "You don't have to do this."

Cas raised his head to look up at Dean, something like hurt flashing behind his eyes.  Dean opened his mouth to ask what was wrong but Cas was on him before he had the chance.  He kissed like he wanted to reassure him, like he wanted to prove something.  Dean let him have it, wrapping his arms around his waist and holding him close.

"I know I don't have to do it," Cas told him quietly, his fingers latching at the belt of his slacks.  "You have never made me do anything I didn't want to do."

"I'm happy, Cas," Dean told him, needing Cas to believe him.  "I don't... need it.  I really don't."  Cas unbuttoned his pants, their foreheads still pressed together, and fuck.  Fuck, he couldn't stop him, he didn't want to.  

"I do," Cas said quietly.  "I want to give you this, so let me."  Cas' fingers were tucked under the waist of his jeans, his belt and fly hanging open.  Cas slid his hands into his pants, cupping his ass as he pushed the stiff cloth down over his hips.  "I want to make you feel good.  I want this to be mine."

Dean couldn't breathe as Cas knelt down on the floor in front of him, Dean stepping out of his slacks.  He wanted to say the words, wanted to tell Cas that he was his.  He belonged to Cas, every inch of him, every touch and breath was his to take.  He would give Cas anything.  God, how was he already so far gone?  He hadn't even seen the edge, just tumbled blindly over it, happy for the fall.

Cas kissed him at the inside of his thigh, first.  His cock throbbed in his boxers, but Dean ignored it and focused on those soft lips against the sensitive skin.  Cas marked his way down, sucking tiny bruises into his flesh as he went.  Over the swell and dip of muscle.  Dean could hardly stand upright, but Cas clung to his thighs and helped him stay steady.  Cas nipped at the inside of both of his knees in turns, rubbed his nose against the sparse hair on his legs.  He kissed his ankles and the tops of his feet.  Dean had never been paid so much uninhibited attention and affection in his life and it was intoxicating.

He was so focused on Cas' mouth he almost forgot about his hands, trailing up over his hips and latching onto the elastic band of his briefs.  Dean covered Cas' hands with his own, stopping him from tugging them down.  Cas looked up at him and his brow furrowed.

"Can I see more of you?" Dean asked quietly.  The look Cas gave him made Dean nervous, maybe he'd pushed it too far.  It felt wrong to be so taken apart but still feel so separated from Cas.  He just wanted to be closer, just a little bit.  Make this whole thing feel less like a one way street.  

Cas surprised him by rising to his feet, wasting no time in stripping the first layer of his unbuttoned shirt.  Dean helped him with his undershirt the way Cas had done with him, trailing fingertips over his skin as he pushed it over his head.  

Once Cas was shirtless, Dean held him close, relishing the feel of their skin pressed together.  He kissed him over his collar bones and nuzzled the sensitive spot below his ear.  Maybe it wasn't sexual for him, but Cas obviously liked the way it felt, and he gripped Dean a little tighter at the attention.

Dean unbuttoned Cas' pants, pushed them down over his hips.  He'd almost forgotten about the nasty scar on a Cas' thigh until he was staring at it, stark and pink against the tanned skin.  Dean leaned in, half kneeling on the floor as he kissed the unnaturally smooth skin, down to its jagged edges like a shaking hand holding a knife. 

"How did this happen?" Dean asked, his breath skating along the outside of his knee where the scar was the worst.  He hoped it was some mundane story, something not even worth telling.  Dean rarely got the things he wanted when it came to stuff like this, though.  Just looking at it made him anxious, made him want to curl up with the man in front of him and never let go.

Dean chanced a glance up at Cas who was looking back at him with a helpless expression.  It couldn't be good.  Whatever it was couldn't be good.  Not if just the threat of saying it out loud made Cas look like he'd been punched in the gut.  He recovered quickly, though, tugging Dean up on his feet and leading him toward the bed.

He wasn't getting an answer.  Not now.

"Lie down," Cas told him.  Dean obeyed, crawling onto the sheets and laying back against the pillows.  Cas looked him over again, like he was surveying some intricate work of art.  Dean colored under his gaze.  Quietly, Cas leaned in, hooking his fingers beneath the waistband of Dean's briefs and tugging them slowly down. 

Dean forgot about everything else besides the drag of cloth on skin, the heady scent of his own arousal.

Dean was only half hard, but Cas didn't let that deter him.  He knelt on the bed between Dean's legs, bowing over to press soft, wet kisses to his stomach.  Dean shivered at the contact, his cock swelling and thumping against Cas' throat.  Cas took his time, paying every inch of space between Dean's legs attention before trailing his mouth over the base of his cock, nose pressed against coarse, dark hair.  Dean started at the contact, electricity humming in the veins.  

Cas might have whispered ‘ _beautiful_ ’ under his breath, dragging his lips over the shaft before he kissed the head, tongue darting out to taste him.  Dean stared down at Cas, expecting to see something on his face other than raw affection, maybe repulsion or regret.  There was none, though.  He looked at Dean unflinchingly, adoringly. 

What followed was without a doubt the most affectionate blowjob Dean had ever received in his life.  Cas didn’t have an ounce of finesse, but he gripped at his thighs and kissed and licked the shaft with a single-mindedness that made Dean warm right to his core.  He tasted every part of Dean, his tongue soft against the vein, teeth lightly dragging over the sensitive head.

When Cas stretched his lips around him, taking him down until they were pressed flush to the slowly swelling knot at the base of his cock, Dean reached down to trail his fingers over Cas’ lips.  He wiped the wet mess from the edges of his mouth, traced the dip below his bottom lip.  He groaned helplessly when Cas started to move, his wide, blue eyes still straining to look back up into Dean’s.  Dean couldn’t bear to break the connection. 

He wound his hand into Cas’ hair.  Not to guide him, just to touch him.  Something Dean desperately needed.   His orgasm built so slowly he was almost surprised to find himself at the edge of it so soon, Cas’ nails biting possessively into the tense muscle of his thighs, his tongue laving over the underside of his cock.  He tightened his hand in Cas’ hair as he groaned out a warning of, “Close baby, I’m so close,” and when Cas didn’t pull off, didn’t do anything but work him faster, one fist wrapped around the base of his dick and rubbing him in all the places his mouth couldn’t reach, Dean could have cried in pleasure.

He came quietly, one fist balled in the sheets and the other raking through Cas’ hair.  He might have called Cas ‘ _perfect_ ’ between the shocks of pleasure that coursed through him, his legs shaking as Cas lapped at his softening, oversensitive cock.   His body went lax against the bed, his eyes struggling to stay open.  Cas continued to kiss him over the jutted bones of his hips, up the line of his naval, the center of his chest.  Dean used what little strength he had left to grab for Cas, muttering “Come here, come here, please,” until Cas got the picture, wrapping his arms around Dean’s waist and settling his face into the crook of his neck.  Cas breathed him in slowly, nipping a little at his pulse point.

“Good?” Cas asked, his voice even lower than usual.  Dean laughed at the complete fucking absurdity of the question.  Cas also sounded a little fucked out, which was hilarious because the guy wasn’t even hard.  Cas was nearly naked, though, and Dean completely so.  Their hips were pressed flush as Cas’ body melted into Dean’s, his weight more a reassuring presence than an actual burden.  Dean started to trail his fingers over Cas’ shoulder blades, down the center of his back and up again.  Cas shivered at the attention.

“Fuckin’ amazing,” Dean smiled against his hair.

“I’m glad,” Cas said, and Dean could hear the smile in his voice, could feel it pressed to his skin. 

Slowly, Dean turned them onto their sides, staring over at Cas whose head was pillowed on his arm, Dean’s hand in his hair.  He was so fucking gorgeous, that strong, sharp jaw and soft lips.  His cheeks were flushed pink and his mouth was swollen.  Dean smiled as he reached up to drag his thumb across his bottom lip, feeling Cas’ slow breathing.  He leaned in to kiss him, then, tasting himself.  He sighed happily, pulling back after a long moment, content to just let the moment sit.

Cas stared at him strangely, though, his warmth slowly giving way to something that looked like apprehension, maybe something worse, and Dean felt a knot tighten in his chest.

“I’m sorry,” Dean told him before he could stop himself, and Cas’ expression changed to confusion and worry.

“No, Dean,” Cas said.  “I promise I don’t regret anything.  Bringing you pleasure makes me very happy.”

“Right,” Dean said, not really believing him.  He stared as Cas’ chest to avoid his eyes.

“Look at me,” Cas told him.  “I was just thinking about what you asked.  About my leg.”  His voice sounded too small, fear lacing through his tone, making it drag and crack.  Dean stared back up at him, moving his hand to cover the scar, Cas’ hand wrapped tight around his wrist.  “I don’t even know where to begin.”

Dean didn’t say anything, couldn’t offer any advice, so he just watched Cas.  The rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathed.  He pressed their foreheads together.

“I was just so tired,” Cas told him with a weariness that was kind of startling.  His fingers tightened against Cas’ thigh and he didn’t respond.  He didn’t think he could if he even knew what to say.  “I left my home at seventeen.  I needed to get out, to get away from her.  I didn’t have anywhere to go, though, I’d been isolated my whole life and if I went to a shelter they’d just send me back and I couldn’t do it, Dean.”

The look on Cas’ face was pleading, like he expected Dean not to understand.  Like he’d judge him.

“I was, um, I was homeless,” Cas continued, Dean’s hand soothing his thigh.  Trying to make this easier.  “I spent my first heat in the carcass of an old busted up metro bus, sweating it out like an addict.  It was the most horrifying experience of my life, and if it hadn’t been for someone finding me and bringing me water and what little bits of food they could spare, it probably would have killed me.” 

 _Thank God it didn’t_ , was all Dean could think.

“I moved a lot, I figured out how to survive day to day, but I think… it wears you down because eventually you just start to wonder why you’re even trying to survive anymore.  What difference would it make if you just stopped walking?  Just sat down and didn’t get back up.  I hated what I was, I hated my family even more, and all the reasons people have to keep going?  Family?  Friends?  Duty?  I had nothing.” 

Cas’ tone had taken on a bitter edge, and Dean knew where the story was headed, and it terrified him.  It was in the past, Cas was here with him.  Dean could hold him and kiss him, hear his voice and smell his skin.  He was solid and real and he wasn’t going anywhere Dean couldn’t follow.  It didn’t keep his hands from shaking, from wishing he could have been a small light for him back then, dull and unimportant as he is.  He wished he could have stopped any of it from happening. 

“It was cold,” Cas started, as if the mundane detail could separate him from the pain the memory clearly caused him.  “I hadn’t eaten in days and I couldn’t stop shaking.  I knew my heat was soon.  Usually that made me angry, made me want to lash out and rip out the parts of myself that I couldn’t stand, but it kept me moving.  That night I was just so exhausted, though, I was so,” his voice broke, and Dean couldn’t take it anymore.  He pulled Cas into his arms, tears burning unshed behind his eyes.  “I was just tired and I didn’t want to do it anymore, Dean.  I couldn’t, I didn’t think it mattered.”

“I know,” Dean whispered into his skin, “I know, it’s okay.  I’m sorry.”  He couldn’t hold him tight enough for this, couldn’t keep him close enough. 

“I found this… broken piece of metal and I,” he took a deep breath, and Dean knew Cas was holding back tears, his body shaking with the effort of it.  “I figured it'd be quick, I'd just made the cut deep and then i'd just... fade out. I just didn't want to be awake anymore. I didn't want to be alive anymore." Cas took a steadying breath, and Dean ran his hands over his back, kissed his shoulder. "It hurt so much more than I expected, I’d been so numb for so long and it was unbearable in comparison, and I guess I must have screamed.  There was so much blood.”

“Someone found you, right?” Dean asked, his voice cracking.  “Took care of you?” 

He had a horrible mental image of Cas, not a younger Cas but _his_ Cas, pale and limp, blood pooling beneath him, his blue eyes glassy and dim.  It made him feel sick and hollow.  Cas nodded against his shoulder, his arms tight around Dean’s waist.  Dean held him for what felt like ages, kept him close enough that Dean could feel Cas’ heart beating away against his chest.  He hid his face in the crook of Cas’ neck, breathed him in, let it fill him up.  He didn’t think he’d be able to let go of him for a long time.   Cas was there, he told himself over and over, he was safe and protected and loved.

Shit.  Loved.  The realization hit him hard, his limbs tensing as he buried himself deeper against Cas’ skin.  God, he was in love with him.  Dean was disastrously, completely, stupidly fucking in love with Castiel and he had no idea what to do with it.

“It’s okay.”  Cas’ voice cut through the fog.  Dean felt a kiss pressed into his hair, felt fingers trailing over his naked back.  Dean shouldn’t be the one needing comforting right now.  Shit, this was heavy for pillow talk.  The thought, wildly, made him laugh.  “What’s so funny?”

“Nothin’,” Dean told him, his voice rough.  “I’m naked, and I probably have emotional whiplash.”

“I’m sorry,” Cas muttered.  Dean separated them enough to look at Cas, his expression serious.  Cas’ eyes were tired and dull, he looked worn thin.

“Don’t apologize,” Dean said quietly, reaching up to cup his jaw, soothing the skin beneath his fingers.  “I’m just so fuckin’ glad you’re here.” His voice broke a little.  Dean closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to keep himself from getting too emotional.  It was difficult.  “Please, just, don’t ever hurt yourself again,” Dean said helplessly.  “It’d probably kill me, too.”

Cas let out a little huff of breath before pulling Dean back to him, this time burying his face against his broad, sweat slick chest.

“I’d never do that to you,” Cas said, his voice nearly inaudible.  “I’d never do that to myself.  Not again.”

Dean just nodded, lips pressed into his hair.  He tried to tell Cas without words all the things he couldn’t quite make himself say.  How much Dean cared about him, and how important he was.  How he made Dean happier than he’d been in years.  How he’d added so fucking much to his life by just being there, how all the things he used to think mattered in relationships were bull because all he _needed_ was Cas close to him and looking at him like he was worth so much more than he’d ever let himself believe.  How desperately Dean loved him.

He told him those things by lacing their fingers together, by pressing soft kisses against his temple and over the swell of his cheekbone.  He held him close until he couldn’t keep his eyes open anymore, letting himself fall asleep with Cas’ breath warm and steady against his chest.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter Warnings:** Sexual Content  
>  **Author Note:** Really sorry for the wait, hopefully the next chapter won't take so long. This chapter is also un-betaed, but it should be relatively okay. Let me know if there is anything weird I need to fix. I really hope you enjoy it.

Dean figured it had to be pretty early in the morning.  The windows beyond Cas’ blinds were still dark, the street below still quiet.  There might have been a few late night partiers coming home stumbling, hungover and exhausted, or a few crusty-eyed business men trying to beat the morning traffic.

Dean felt rested.  He hadn’t slept so well in what felt like too long.  Thanks to that impromptu nap on the couch he’d gotten a hell of a lot more sleep than Cas.  Part of him wanted to wake Cas up, but he’d probably get a swift kick to the shin as thanks before Cas turned away from him and continued sleeping.

Grumpy bastard.

Dean smirked.  He was more or less happy to watch Cas’ slow breathing in the dark, his mouth parted, hair sticking straight up where it wasn’t pressed to the pillows.  It kind of dawned on him again that he loved Cas, and the thought was way less jarring than it had been hours ago.  It wasn’t all big and scary and overwhelming even though Dean was pretty sure he hadn’t fallen in love with anyone… well, ever.  It just made sense.  It wasn’t like he could stop if he wanted to. 

It didn’t mean he was going to tell him. 

Cas moved slow with shit he’d never given a fucking thought to, and love was actually one of those things that generally came in way later during relationships.  It was the goddamn hierarchy of mating.  More often shit started on impulse, getting the scent of someone in your lungs and knowing they were the one for you.  If you met your truemate, that was it.  You were done.  Sink your teeth straight into their neck and mark them for life kind of done.  Dean hadn’t really believed in that bullshit for a long time, though.  Not for him.  It was just that pairing didn’t have much to do with love, not the slow building kind of love anyway.  It was just attraction, and knowing.  Raw and animalistic.  This was so fucking different.

Cas probably wasn’t in love with him, though.  The idea that he might be seemed painfully laughable.

Starting at the slope of Cas’ neck and shoulder, Dean trailed his fingertips along the skin until Cas shivered in his sleep, tugging the thin sheet further up his waist.  Cas had a fucking amazing jawline.  His skin was tanned, a little darker than Dean's own, and he liked the contrast of his hand splayed wide on Cas’ chest, feeling the weight of it as Cas sucked air back into his lungs.

Dean moved his hand further down, over his stomach and sides, pushing away the sheet as he went.  He touched the line of his hipbones, skated the edge of his briefs.  He set his palm over his thigh and massaged the muscle, his fingers leaving white impressions against his skin.   After a few minutes of that, just exploring every uncovered inch of Cas’ body, keeping a distance from the heat between his legs but still trailing fingertips over the warm, soft skin of his inner thighs, Cas let out a short, ragged breath.  It almost sounded like a moan.  Dean’s hand stopped moving as his eyes darted back to Cas’ face.  Cas’ eyes were open, dark in the low light, but clear and calm.

“What are you doing?” Cas asked in a low, almost teasing voice.  It cracked a little with sleep, more gravely than it was usually, which was a goddamn feat all on its own.

“Sorry,” Dean grunted, pulling his hand back.  “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Don’t apologize,” Cas told him as he reached forward for Dean’s hand.  Dean expected him to lace their fingers together, which he was all for, but instead Cas pulled it forward by his wrist as he turned onto his back.  He set Dean’s palm back against his thigh.  “Of all the things I have to wake up early for, you are by far the most pleasant.”

Dean chucked low in his throat as he resumed his slow exploration of Cas’ body.  Cas closed his eyes, his legs spread just enough that Dean could grasp easily at his inner thigh.  He could feel the warmth coming off his body in waves.    It was hard to remember how closed off he’d been once compared to how he was now. He trusted Dean to touch him, to feel him.

Dean scented the air, mostly to reassure himself.  Cas could apparently go down on him without so much as a twinge of arousal.  He seemed completely uninterested in even the prospect of his own pleasure, and his interest in Dean’s was so much less sexual than he was used to.  It was still laser focused and almost alarmingly intimate.

Which, you know, he loved.

The thing was, Dean didn’t even know if Cas could really feel it if Dean touched him in the way people usually enjoyed, or if it was just like any other touch, any other piece of skin.  Would his body respond despite his lack of interest in sex?  Could Dean even get him off if Cas decided to let him try?  He knew it probably didn’t matter to him, anyway, but still.

“What’s wrong?” Cas asked, turning his head to the side so he could look at Dean.

“Nothing.”

“Liar,” Cas said, his voice a little quieter.

Dean scratched his nails over the soft skin at the back of Cas’ knee, which earned him a little involuntary flutter of eyelashes.  Alright, he wasn’t completely unsusceptible to touch, however he processed it.  He just felt like if Cas ever decided to have sex with him, it would probably kill Dean if Cas couldn’t enjoy it.  At least on some level.

“Dean,” he pressed.

“Can I ask you a really awkward, personal question?” Dean asked, his mouth dry around words he’d never planned on saying.

Cas frowned at him for a second, licking his over-dry lips as he contemplated the man beside him.  “Dean, you can ask me anything,” he said slowly.  “I promise to answer honestly.  Though, since you put it like that, there are some things I’d also like to know.”

“Okay,” Dean said, nervousness suddenly balling in his stomach.  “I’ll, uh, same.”  He’d try, anyway.

“What do you want to know?”

“Have you ever, um,” Dean said, pausing to bite at his lips.  Fuck this was awkward. “Have you ever touched yourself outside of your heat?”

Dean hadn’t expected Cas to laugh.  It wasn’t even a nervous laugh, just open and comfortable.  He wasn’t sure if it made him feel more or less awkward than before.

“Sorry,” Cas said, grinning back at him.  “I’m surprised it took you so long to ask.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously,” Cas said.  “Trying to explain myself  to people has always been an uphill battle.  There are generally a lot of probing questions… and doubt, I suppose.”  He paused for a moment, reaching out to run his fingers through Dean’s hair.  It felt fucking amazing. 

“In answer to your question, yes.  I have masturbated on rare occasion.  It doesn’t really occur to me to do so, but it’s enjoyable.”  Cas paused again, smirking.  “Well, alright, it was frustrating at first because I couldn’t figure out what to do, but in that way I think I was like most teenagers.  My body responds to physical stimulation, it just takes a bit of patience.  Fantasy doesn’t exactly have much of an effect, especially since I don’t even know what to fantasize about.  All of my fantasies include easy conversations and holding hands.”

“You’re such a sap,” Dean teased, his fingertips dragging over the tops of Cas’ thighs and his knees.  Cas was turning him into a fucking sap, too, God help him.

“Yes, I know,” Cas huffed.  “Why do you ask, anyway?”

“I don’t know,” Dean lied.  Cas glared at him in response.  “Fine, I just think about… fucking…” Dean paused, and Cas arched an eyebrow at him.  “I mean, not fucking.  Well, yes, fucking, but that’s not…”  Jesus fucking Christ.  “I thing about getting you off.”  His face was hot with embarrassment.  Talking about this shit made him feel like a teenager again.  “I was wondering if it would, ya know, feel good.”

Cas stared at him for a moment.  His expression was unreadable, but slowly he parted his legs a little more, shifting his hips against the mattress.  Dean felt heat spike through him at the movement.

“Is it important to you?” Cas asked.  He wasn’t teasing Dean about it, just honestly wondering.  Dean found himself scooting forward until his bent knees were touching Cas’ leg.  He wasn’t sure how to answer that.  It was kind of complicated.  “Dean,” Cas said, meeting his eyes in the dark space.  “Come here.”

Dean swallowed and it sounded annoyingly loud to his own ears.  He moved until his body molded with Cas’, pressed to his side, tangling their legs together.  Cas’ arm wound around his shoulder, his nails scratching at the nape of his neck.  Cas’ sheets smelled like their skin, the scent of dusted pages and wood grain falling away until all that was left was the two of them.  Dean pressed his nose greedily to Cas’ neck.

“It’s my turn,” Cas said, nuzzling into Dean’s hair and breathing him in.  For a second Dean wasn’t sure what Cas meant, his hand trailing back up over his hip slowly.  Kind of distracted by the fact that he was still ridiculously naked and Cas was nearly there himself.

But then he remembered.

“Tell me something about your family,” Cas said, pulling back so they could look at each other.  Dean frowned, clenching his jaw.  “It doesn’t have to be an unhappy memory.  I feel like you know all of my secrets and I don’t even know how many siblings you have.”

“I don’t know how many siblings you have,” Dean countered.  Stalling.

“Oh,” Cas said.  “I have three, actually.  Anna, my only sister and younger than me by four years, and then Gabriel and Michael who are both older than me.”

“Where the hell were they when your mom was busy being the ‘World’s Shittiest Parent’?”

“She wasn’t,” Cas told him simply.  “I had a fairly good childhood up until I presented.  She might have had some backwards ideals but she was a widow with four children, one of which made absolutely no sense to her.  I believe she did the best she could.”

“Are you serious?” Dean gaped at him.

“Yes,” Cas said.  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Cas, just because you weren’t what she expected – which is plenty fucked up on its own, by the way – that doesn’t mean that it was okay for her to fucking drug you into being what she wanted.” Dean tried to temper his anger, but it was a battle he was losing.  “She made you feel like all of it was your goddamn fault because you should have been.  I don’t know.  Born a beta or alpha.  God, how inconvenient that must’ve been.  You fucking ran from her, Cas, you knew shit was screwed up.  Why are you defending her?”

“She’s my mother,” Cas shrugged, a vacant look in his eyes.  He was shutting it out.  “And you’re deflecting.”

Dean growled angrily, but Cas’ expression didn’t change.  “Fine, I’ve just got the one brother.  Sam.  He’s about five years younger than me.”

“And?” Cas prodded.

“And what?  He’s a fucking genius and not even remotely modest about it.  A nerd masquerading as a brick house alpha.  He was already my height the last time I saw him, which was about four years ago.”  God, four years.  Four fucking years.  “Probably bigger than me at this point.  He was only sixteen.”

“Are you close?”

“Yeah, yeah we were close.  Dad was, uh,” Dean swallowed.  How the fuck had he agreed to this.  “I dunno, Dad was military so he was gone a lot.  Mom basically raised us on her own, which I think she fucking hated.  I mean he’d come home for three months at a time, sometimes six, rarely a year.  He still traveled during those times so he’d up and disappear for a week here and there.  Mom didn’t like the idea of moving around so that made it even harder, I guess.  To keep him there with us.”  Dean balled his hand into a fist, still pressed to Cas’ side.  He felt Cas place an open hand against his arm, rubbing in slow circles. 

“Sammy was a scrawny kid and he got picked on a lot when we were younger.  I was the only one around to do something about it.  I didn’t want mom to worry.  I guess I kinda started feeling like he was my responsibility.  We probably hung out a hell of a lot more than your average siblings, especially with the age gap.”  Dean laughed a little bit, finally meeting Cas’ eyes.  Cas looked back at him. He wasn’t giving away any emotion, but he was focused.  “He was my best friend.”

“Was?”

“Yeah, well,” Dean huffed.  “Hard to keep that status when you haven’t talked in four years.”

“What?  Why haven’t you spoken in so long?” Cas actually sounded concerned, now.  Which was appropriate.  This was getting deep into ‘I don’t want to fucking talk about this’ territory.

“Because I’m a fucking screw up,” Dean told him with as much cold detachment as he could muster.  “And I’m also done with this conversation.”  Cas frowned at him, but didn’t say anything else.  Dean felt like shit for getting angry at him, but it wasn’t just reliving this crap that he was afraid of.  He was afraid Cas would finally see him the way he saw himself and not like it.  Fucking bolt.  He wasn’t ready for that.

“Dean,” Cas said quietly, pulling him back.  Dean looked at him, his expression falling into something apologetic.  He hoped.  “I’m sorry.”

“Shut up,” Dean said, trying to smile.  “It’s not your fault.”

Cas pulled him close for a slow kiss, and Dean sighed into it.  Everything else fell away.  Cas pulled back after a minute and looked at him in the low light, his eyes narrowed in concentration.  “You can touch me if that’s what you want.” 

There was half a beat of silence where Dean just breathed, processing the information. “Cas, I want whatever you’ll give me,” Dean said a little too honestly.  He was suddenly hyper focused on his hand, now gripping at Cas’ hip.  He trailed his thumb over the bone before pressing down along the edge of his waistband.  Moving slowly, he leaned forward as Cas bared his neck for him in compliance, teeth dragging along the skin. 

“How did you know,” Dean started, not really sure what made him ask right that fucking second, but the words were already out.  “That, you know, you weren’t…”

“What?  Sexually inclined?”

Dean grimaced.

“How did you know that you _were_?”

“Good point.”

“It just never happened for me.  And it wasn’t like I…”  Cas took a deep, shuddery breath when Dean’s hand trailed further down, feeling through the coarse hair between his legs.  “It wasn’t as if I wasn’t interested in people peripherally.  I just, I figured once I presented something would click and I would suddenly be able to... I mean I was young, there was still time.  I was always awkward and too serious.” Cas laughed a little, a breathy sound.  “Obviously that didn’t happen and I had a whole slew of other issues to work out in the interim.  Whether or not I was interested in sex was fairly unimportant.”

Dean took a breath and moved his hand to cup Cas’ soft dick beneath his palm.  He was warm, and it felt obscenely good to touch him, aroused or not.  He kind of got a thrill from knowing he was the only person Cas had allowed to do this.  Cas stared up at him with wide, clear eyes as he started to move his fingers over the heated flesh.  No different than if he were cupping his face.

“I just got used to the way I was, I got used to the idea of being alone.  It was safer that way.”

Well that was a fucking depressing outlook.  One Dean had shared up until recently.  Dean closed his eyes and focused on Cas’ skin instead.  He rubbed a little harder, and against all odds Cas’ body started to respond.  Dean wrapped a fist around him, half hard now, and gave it a little tug. He was rewarded with Cas’ small noise of approval.  Just the tiniest fucking whimper.

“That okay?”

“Yes,” he breathed.  Dean smiled, leaning in to kiss him.  He pushed Cas’ briefs down his thighs so he could get a better hold of him.  Cas didn’t get hard quickly.  He kind of waned in and out of it, but Dean had all the patience in the world for this.  Just the fact that his hips canted a little on the upstroke, the slightest tinge of arousal in the air around him, something he’d never scented outside of Cas’ heat, was enough to keep him optimistic.

Cas was fully hard after a few quiet minutes of working him over, and Dean had coaxed a dab of precome out of him, spreading it over his cockhead with the pad of his thumb.  The scent of it was bitter and sweet at the same time, and he resisted the urge to bow over and lick it from him.  Dean hadn’t given a blowjob in fucking forever, and the few times he’d done it had been more just to get his partner hard before he sunk into them.  People didn’t really want him for his mouth, they wanted him for his knot.  Alphas didn’t generally bend down for their partners.  It wasn’t really expected, or even desirable to most.  But Dean would.  He would for Cas and he’d consider it a goddamn privilege.

It was slow, and Cas’ expression kept shifting between fierce concentration, frustration, and pleasure.  That was kind of disconcerting, and Dean wasn’t sure if he should keep going.  Cas responded better when he kissed him, when he heard his voice over the soft, slick sounds of Dean tugging on him.  Dean really wanted to use his mouth but Cas kind of had an iron grip around his waist and he kept burying his face against his neck.  The guy was fucking stiff as a board, all his muscles locked tight.

“It’s okay,” Dean said, nudging Cas’ cheek with his nose and kissing his jaw.  “Try to relax.”  Cas just nodded abortively, canting his hips up to meet Dean’s fist.  The hand on Dean’s waist tightened.  Dean bit and kissed his neck in turns, his shoulder finally starting to hurt and his muscles strained.  He took a break from jerking him, trailing shaking fingertips down the shaft.  Cas seemed to relax at the softer touch, his body finally going pliant again. 

Dean felt a little useless, but he shoved it aside.  Cas looked up at him with half-lidded eyes, focusing on his expression.  

“Why me?” Dean asked shakily as he kissed Cas down the column on his throat to the center of his chest, tasting his sweat. 

“What?”

“Why me?  Why give me a chance?”

Cas let out a short breath, his free hand reaching over him to touch the nape of Dean’s neck, fingernails raking across the skin.  Dean looked up at him.

“You have no idea,” Cas breathed, his eyes piercing in the low light, his brow slightly pinched in confusion.  “You’re so much more than you think you are.”

Dean didn’t know how to respond to that, so he found himself pulling back from Cas so he could focus on tugging his underwear the rest of the way down off his legs.  Cas was… goddamn it.  He was overwhelmingly fucking sexy, his cock curling up toward his stomach, half-hard and slightly slick with precome.  Dean tried not to focus further down where he was just barely wet with tempered arousal, the scent saccharine and heady.  Just the idea of being inside him made Dean feel feral and possessive.

“That’s not an answer,” Dean muttered, biting back the growl that was fighting to push its way up his throat.  He leaned over to kiss his thighs, his hips, his stomach.

“You’re the first person in a long time… in my whole life, really, that made me honestly wish I weren’t… different.  That I were normal and wanted what other people wanted in a relationship,” Cas told him.  Dean looked up at him, frowning.  “When you kissed me I was confused and furious, and when I kissed you I felt even worse.  But you,” Cas laughed a little helplessly, reaching down to cup Dean’s jaw.  “Then you said it was alright.  You wanted me anyway.”

Dean blinked at him once before he moved, completely abandoning whatever it was they were doing before.  Cas really didn’t seem to care.  He wrapped his arms around Dean as Dean kissed him, their bodies warm and slotted together, completely naked.  Their hips pressed flush.  It was fucking stupid and confusing that this should feel more right than trying to entice Cas to an orgasm. 

“Dean?” Cas said, tilting his head as Dean ducked his head to rub his jaw against Cas’ neck and nip at his ear.  “I don’t mind sharing this with you, I really don’t.  Being with you is alarmingly easy and if I were to trust anyone with this it would be you.  But, I’d rather it be more mutual.  You attempting to get me off is more likely to be an exercise in frustration rather than intimacy.”

“Our whole relationship so far has been an exercise in frustration,” Dean teased with a grin, laughing when Cas smacked him open palm across his shoulder blade.  “Kidding, I’m kidding,” Dean told him, trying to steal a kiss.  Cas just frowned and pulled his lips between his teeth so Dean couldn’t get to them.  “C’mon.”

“For all your good qualities you still manage to be infuriating,” Cas growled, not meeting his eyes.

“Hey,” Dean said, bumping his nose against his cheek.  “I’m sorry, I’m a fucking jerk, alright?”  Cas looked torn at the words, shaking his head and looking back at him.  “What do you mean mutual?  You want me to jerk it while I blow you?  Might be distracting.”  Or hot.  Really, really hot.

“No, I meant sex,” Cas said simply. 

Dean licked his lips, his mouth uncomfortably dry.  His heart started beating a mile a minute.  “You want that?” he asked quietly.  Cas’ eyes softened, his hand cupping Dean’s jaw before winding around the back of his neck into his hair.  Cas stared at him for a moment before he moved to speak again.

“Maybe not now,” Cas said.  His gaze darted toward the nightstand where his clock sat, numbers glowing a soft, white light.  It wasn’t even five in the morning.  Cas must actually be exhausted. 

“Not really in a hurry,” Dean told him, and honestly he meant it.  As much as he wanted Cas, as quickly as he would jump at any opportunity to be close to him, he knew it would be shit if Cas weren’t comfortable.  And he’d feel like shit.  It might actually fuck this whole thing up in ways he couldn’t fix, which was a worse thought than never having sex again for the rest of his fucking life.  Easily. 

Really, though, Dean kind of just wanted to bang his fucking skull against the nearest hard surface he could find because he was so fucked.

“We should get some more sleep before work,” Dean said, resting his forehead on Cas’ shoulder.

He felt Cas nodding slowly, like he’d just rediscovered his own fatigue.  Dean turned to kiss him again, his hand winding through his hair, letting the taste and the scent of him fill his senses.  They rolled onto their sides and Cas curled into his arms kissing his throat before letting himself relax and fall asleep. 

Dean tried not to let the failed attempt at getting Cas off bother him.  He really fucking did.  Cas obviously wasn’t upset about it, but it just made him feel fucking impotent.  Dean bit the inside of his cheek and tried to close his own eyes.  Maybe he could sleep more if he really put his mind to it. 

After about five of the longest minutes of his life, Dean pulled himself away and stood up.  There was no way it was going to happen.  He might as well take the first shower and work out some of the tension that had built back in his muscles.

Dean pulled the covers over Cas, kissing his shoulder before he turned to head toward the bathroom.

\--

Friday brought a storm with it. 

It didn’t do anything to temper the heat of summer, instead sitting there over-thick and pressing hard and damp against Dean’s skin.  The smell of dinner, seasoned rice and baked chicken, sat in Dean’s house, hanging in the damp air and intermingled with Cas’ skin and the soap on his hands, the sweat that stuck to his neck and wrists.  Dean breathed in deeply, wiping his hands dry and turning from the sink to look back at him. 

Something was wrong, or at least something wasn’t right.  Cas had been stiff since they’d left the office earlier, hadn’t said much through dinner.  Thinking back, he’d actually been withdrawn since their night together earlier that week, and Dean was doing his best not to worry about it.  Work had been demanding, and Cas had a lot to catch up on.  Dean sighed when Cas wound his arms around his waist and pressed his nose and mouth against his neck, Cas’ stubble scraping against his own.  They stood there in silence for a while, listening to the distant roll of thunder, the rain against the windows, and the din of traffic, before Dean finally spoke up.

“Week’s over, man, you can relax,” Dean smiled, rubbing his back.

“I’m relaxed,” Cas told him, his voice buzzing against Dean’s neck.  “Are you?  You’re presenting your designs on Monday.  Are you ready?”

“I guess,” Dean said stiffly.  Trust Cas to bring up the one topic of conversation that was currently stressing him out.  He thought anxiously of the third design.  It was a struggle, nothing coming out the way he wanted it to.  Dean figured the first two were good enough to make up for it.  He hoped they were.

“That sounds promising.”

Dean huffed, frustrated and embarrassed.  “I dunno, haven’t exactly finished the third,” he hedged, pulling back to look at him.  Cas was frowning, the small crease between his eyebrows fucking taunting him.  “Don’t go all demanding boss on me now.”

“Why are you having trouble?” Cas asked.  Dean shrugged in response.  “Can I see it?”

“Uh,” Dean paused, licking his lips, “Yeah, sure.”  Cas leaned in to kiss him quickly, his fingernails digging into the soft meat of Dean’s lower back before pulling away.  It kinda got him breathing heavy, but it didn’t take much to do that.  Not with Cas.  “It’s up in my room,” Dean told him breathlessly.  Cas nodded, and Dean led him up the stairs.

Once they were in his bedroom Cas settled himself at the edge of the bed while Dean rifled through the mess of sketches and the plastic sleeves of the two finished designs he had laid out on his bedside table.  The newest design, half-finished and even worse than he remembered from the night before, sat between them, the oils on his fingers leaving light smudges on its edge.

Dean laid it on top of the stack of papers and gathered them up in his hands before going to sit beside Cas on the bed.  Cas leaned over to look at the unfinished work, his long fingers touching the edges of the paper, staying clear of the pencil marks.

“What’s the matter with it?” Cas asked, his voice rumbling close to his ear as he propped his chin on Dean’s shoulder.   

“Just not feelin’ it, I guess,” Dean shrugged, grimacing down at his work.  He flipped through the other drawings, some half realized and over accentuated with anxious, jagged crosshatching of shadows in pen.  “You know I took classes in highschool,” he told Cas, not really sure why he was telling him.  It made him feel that shallow pit in the center of his chest widen until it pressed against his lungs.  Cas didn’t say anything, his breath warm against his neck.  “It wasn’t always cars.  I used to sketch Sammy playing in our backyard, his stupid floppy hair and scraped knees.  I used to draw monsters from books we read for school.  I used to…”  Dean took a breath, his thumb rubbing the edge of the paper until it felt like it might thin under his attention.

“You don’t anymore,” Cas said quietly, and it wasn’t a question.

“My dad wasn’t always around,” Dean told him with difficulty, the chasm that had opened up in him gaping and bottomless.  “But I wanted so fucking bad for him to be proud of me.  Cause for most of my childhood it was like I didn’t even exist to him.  He was…” Dean paused to let out a hollow laugh.  “The first time I ever really remember thinking I’d done right by him was when I presented as an alpha.  He was goddamn ecstatic, took me out once my hormones calmed down and bought me this massive steak all while telling me how great it was, that I was a real man now.” 

Dean turned to Cas, their cheeks pressed together for a moment before Cas backed off to look at him properly.

“You know, I think him and your mom might have had a few things in common.  I’m not sure he would have been happy if me or Sammy had been anything… anything but what we were.”  It wasn’t an easy thing to admit, but time and distance gave him some perspective.  He remembered the way John had looked when Dean admitted he had a thing for an omega boy in the eighth grade, the look of relief when he’d asked a pretty beta girl out instead.  “My mom was upset when I got into it with other kids; I had a goddamn temper, especially near rut.  Dad never saw it that way, not as a bad thing.  Alphas are aggressive by nature, he told me, possessive, in-fucking-charge.  They didn’t back down and they protected what was theirs.”

Maybe his dad wasn’t completely off the mark there.  Protecting the shit you loved wasn’t wrong, and he only regretted the fights that weren’t in defense of his little brother.  Still, he could have been better.  He could have enjoyed it less.

 “Alphas didn’t waste their time in art classes,” Dean tacked on, because that was what it was really about.  He shouldn’t feel bitter about his father.  He really fucking shouldn’t.

“You stopped?” Cas asked, his hand finding its way to grasp Dean’s hip.

“Eventually,” Dean told him.  “I tried, except for...”  He remembered the first time he’d picked up a pencil after he’d left Sioux Falls, his head pounding with a nasty hangover and wanting to find an escape again.  Wanted to pour himself into it like he used to.  He’d felt more guilty for that than the empty bottle of jack.

“You are so much more,” Cas said carefully, his fingers tightening, gripping at him.  “More than the roles you were expected to play.”  Dean blinked at him, feeling the gaping hole in his chest tighten and shrink.  He kissed Cas for that.  He kissed him slowly, taking his bottom lip between his own and nibbling and sucking gently, rolling it under his tongue.  Cas tasted perfect, like home and safety, and he wanted, he needed to be more.  For him.   Because he wasn’t, he really wasn’t. 

“I don’t even know if he’d be proud of me now,” Dean said against Cas’ mouth, foreheads pressed together.  All he could think about was the last time he’d seen his Dad, the pure frustration, his own anger itching and stinging in his throat.  Hating himself.  Again.

“He should be,” Cas said simply. He moved slowly, pushing at Deans’ shoulders for him to back up.  Dean set the drawings on the floor at his feet and moved up the bed until his back was pressed to the headboard, Cas following him.  Cas set his hands on Dean’s hips as he straddled his outstretched legs and sat himself carefully on Dean’s thighs.  Dean felt desire and apprehension build up in equal amounts.  He only had so much self-control, and he wanted Cas.  He wanted him, _wanted_.  Needed.

“The design I found,” Cas said, a hand trailing through his hair.  “The first day we met.”

“What about it?” Dean asked, his voice way breathier than he’d expected.  His heart was racing.

“Modify it into a four door.  For the third design.”

Dean blinked up at him, searching his stern blue eyes.  Then he nodded, pulling Cas back into him and burying his face in his neck, nipping and kissing.   The urge to bite down and break the skin was overwhelming.  He could say it until his throat bled raw, how Cas was his and he was Cas’, but he wanted to make it permanent.  He wanted people to know.  He wanted to bind them together, make a claim.  Dean wanted to know what Cas tasted like under his skin.  He wanted to know Cas wasn’t leaving. 

Cas melted into him, his hands shaking minutely against his shoulders. 

“What’s wrong?” Dean asked quietly, holding him closer.  “Talk to me.”

“No talking,” Cas said breathily.  He moved to kiss Dean again, his mouth tight with apprehension.  Dean finally realized what was happening.  What Cas might be planning, what he’d probably been planning since earlier that week.  He felt dizzy with anticipation and fucking guilt because he should have asked Cas to stop, told him it wasn't necessary, but his body wanted it and _he_ wanted it and Cas… “Don’t do that,” Cas growled against his mouth.  Dean shut his eyes.  “Please don’t do that.  I want this with you.”

“You –”

“Just because my reasons are different than yours doesn’t mean they don’t count.”

And what were his reasons?  Dean recalled the first time they’d talked about it, the sex thing, and the way Cas had said he might not mind it if it were with someone he cared for, if it were more than just chasing instinct.  More than just the act of sex itself.  Cas cared about Dean.  Dean didn’t know how much, didn’t know if it reached down as deeply in Cas as it did in Dean, but he knew it was there.  Cas wouldn’t be with him if he didn’t care.  And Dean, well.

Dean loved him. 

Dean took a deep breath and pressed his mouth to Cas’ collarbone, just above the neckline of his tee.  Cas dipped his nose into the mess of his dusty brown hair and breathed him in.  They stayed like that for a moment before there were fingers at the hem of Dean’s shirt, tugging up.

He let Cas undress him, the feel of cloth brushing against his oversensitive skin.  The damp air pressed against his naked chest, leaving trails of sweat where their skin touched hot and flushed against one another.  Dean took Cas’ shirt and tossed it to the floor on top of his own, leaning forward to mouth at his bare chest and feeling the shallow, quick beating of his heart under his lips. 

It took longer to get the rest of their clothes off, fumbling around each other.  Cas’ movements were careful and patient, Dean’s hands shaking every time he pulled away.  He leaned back against the headboard, his and Cas’ pants and underwear on the floor with their shirts, Cas’ bare knees knocking at the outsides of Dean’s thighs as he straddled him again.  

Fuck, this was happening. 

Dean's mind couldn’t seem to catch up with his body, which was warm and thrumming with desire.  Cas’ careful hand reached between his legs and closed around him as he leaned in to kiss the apprehension from Dean’s mouth.  Cas tugged him slowly to hardness. Dean took ragged breaths, pulling them into his lungs between fevered kisses.

“I want you,” Dean told him quietly, his fingers pressed to the knots in his spine, trailing them down the curve of his back.  He felt a growl pull up from his throat, the animal in him screaming to claim, to sink in.  To take, and take, and take. 

“Touch me,” Cas said, his voice low and rumbling in his throat.  Dean pulled back to look at Cas, trying to focus through the shocks of pleasure at every pull of Cas’ hand.  Dean watched his eyes, clear as always but with intent in them that Dean wasn’t used to.  Carefully, he reached forward to touch Cas between his legs, still soft and uninterested, which brought an alarming shock of reality to the situation.  “Not there.”

Dean narrowed his eyes at him, his hips twitching into Cas’ hand abortively under the weight of him sitting on his lap.

“I need,” Cas licked his lips, looking shy for half a heartbeat before masking it again.  “I need… stimulation.  To get my body to…  I could do it myself,” Cas paused as Dean shook his head, pulling him against his chest and kissing his jaw.  Dean wet two fingers between his own lips before he trailed the hand over the cleft of Cas' ass to touch his fingers lightly to the tight ring of muscle.

Cas let out a sharp breath, his muscles drawing tight and his chest shaking, pressing harder against Dean's chest.

Dean worked Cas slowly, carefully.  Cas was tight and dry at first, an anxious clench of muscles as he dug his short fingernails into the meat of Dean’s shoulder.  His breath was hot against Dean’s neck.  Dean rubbed his back with his free hand, murmuring words of encouragement, breathing, “Relax, trust me.  I’ve got you.”

It took a while before the saccharine scent of Cas’ arousal started to push at him, his fingers wet with more than just his own spit.  Cas’ body opened up, trusting and relaxed, his low breathing more than just a frustrated, nervous huffing.  His hands softened against Dean’s shoulders, his hips rolling down to meet his fingers as he started kissing Dean again, open and warm.

 _I love you_ , Dean thought helplessly, lost in the heady scent of Cas.  His skin, his sweat, his heat.  The oils in his hair, the wet between his legs.  Dean pulled his fingers free of Cas, a small whimper sitting in the back of Cas’ throat as Dean reached up to run his clean hand through his mess of dark hair.  Dean kissed and breathed and forced the sentiment into Cas' lungs because he was too terrified to say the words out loud. 

Cas moved on his own, his hand gripping at the swollen base of Dean’s length to keep him steady, and before Dean could process it, Cas was sinking onto him, heat all around him and lighting him up, burning him out until there was nothing left in him but this desperate _want_.  And fear.  Because he’d thought about this, he’d craved this so much and there he was, having it, and it scared the absolutely fucking hell out of him. 

Cas was supposed to be the nervous one here, not Dean.  Dean had fucked too many people, knew this game like the back of his hand, but none of it could prepare him for what it felt like to be this goddamn close to Cas.  To have this and not want to walk out afterward.  Knowing this was more… because it had to be, he wanted it to be.    This was _his_ Cas, in every way save a mark on his neck.  And he couldn’t fuck it up.

“Dean,” Cas said, a cracked, low sound.  “I need you here.  Don’t go somewhere else.”  Dean pressed his forehead to Cas’ bare shoulder, laughing quietly.  Then he nodded against him, wrapped his arms around his waist and pulled him close, felt himself shift in the heat of Cas’ body, and it was more than physical pleasure.  So much more.  “Look at me.”

Dean did.  He stared up into Cas’ too-blue, too-calm eyes as Cas moved, pushing up on his knees just to lower himself back again, and _fuck_ it felt amazing.  Too much.  They were barely moving and already it was too fucking much.  If he had the fucking balls to tell Cas how he felt right then, he would have.  Staring up at him as Cas shifted his hips slowly up and down, eyes locked purposefully, breaking him down with just that unwavering stare, it felt like the moment.  But he couldn’t.  They were so close and the idea of him leaving now felt… fucking impossible to deal with.

Cas brushed his hands on Dean’s shoulders, watching his expression change every time he lowered back onto him, thighs shaking with the effort, their bodies moving together in a slow, easy roll.  Dean leaned forward to kiss him, their chests touching, pressed together so tight he could feel every tiny breath, every skip of his heart.

“I’m with you,” Dean reassured him against his lips, pushing his hips up to meet Cas’, knees bent and feet flat on the mattress to brace himself.

They were wrapped up in one another, sometimes stealing kisses but mostly just sharing the same air, too lost in the careful movement, the tight burn in their muscles, to focus on anything else.  It didn’t feel like sex, it felt like they were melting into one another.  Sweat clung to their skin, lines of it trailing down the edges of their faces to the seam of their lips.  Dean figured he’d come quickly, he’d wanted this for so long and now that it was finally here he wasn’t sure how he’d lasted, minutes or hours, just holding Cas to him.  The slow thrust of his hips into Cas’ heat was hypotonic, and he wasn’t chasing anything.  He didn’t care.  He just wanted him close, and maybe that was what Cas meant about intimacy, about sex being more. 

And it was easy, so easy.  To lose himself to what they were when they were together.  Him and Cas.

Cas whimpered a little as Dean dipped his head to nibble at his neck, sucking small bruises into the tanned skin that would be gone by Monday.  A mark was a mark, permanent or not, and he wanted to mark Cas up.  He could feel the knot at the base of his dick swelling, the feral fire climbing up his throat when Cas wouldn’t lower himself enough for it to catch.  The instinct to grab him and pull him down just a little further was getting overwhelming.

“Cas,” Dean breathed, thrusting up a little harder, his shoulders thumping against the headboard.  “Cas, do you want me to,” Dean paused, holding Cas tight against him as he pushed his hips up. Cas’ body clenched around him as Dean's already heavily swollen knot pressed against him, demanding entrance.  Cas hesitated before he nodded, leaning in to kiss him and nodding again with their lips still sealed together.  Dean pushed until his felt the muscle give, his hand soothing circles against Cas’ back, whispering ‘relax’ against his lips. 

When he finally broke through, fully and completely surrounded by that heat, Cas let out a solid groan, biting his lip until he was sure he’d left impressions in the soft skin. 

Dean buried his face against Cas’ neck as he sped up, no longer waiting for the slow roll of Cas’ hips and just shuddering shallowly inside him, chasing the orgasm he could feel building hot at the base of his spine.  His dull fingernails dug into Cas’ hips.  He was close, so close, and he couldn’t take it anymore.  He moved his lips silently around the words he’d avoided saying, pressed them into Cas’ overheated skin. 

Silent, and safe, but still there.

_I love you._

And then he was coming, pleasure rolling through his body, beginning and ending where their bodies were locked together.  Cas whimpered his name and pressed his face into Dean’s hair, holding him close and clenching around him.  Dean breathed through it, every muscle in his body locking up before they slowly relaxed again. 

It felt like hours before he trembled weakly through the last of his physical release.

They stayed there, Dean laying soft kisses across his shoulders, running a hand through Cas' damp hair.  They couldn’t exactly move, they’d be stuck like this for another few minutes at least, but Dean didn’t want to anyway. He wanted to stay as close as he could, for as long as he could.  Cas pulled back enough so Dean could look at him, and there was a small, soft smile playing at the edge of his mouth.

“You didn’t,” Dean paused, looking between them to Cas’ dick, not completely soft but definitely not demanding or spent.  Dean bit down his regret.  Omegas usually came at the same time as alphas, their bodies moving in sync, ecstasy rolling freely between the two of them.  Dean hadn’t realized.  He should have touched him.

“I don’t need to,” Cas told him, trying to meet his eyes.  “Dean, look at me.”  Dean did as he was told, and Cas was staring at him with wide, earnest blue eyes.  Dean leaned forward and kissed him, a small pulse of pleasure running lazily through him just to remind him where he was, what they were doing.  How closely they were tied.  It’d never felt so goddamn profound as it did right then.  He couldn’t help but feel sad as well, and he didn’t really know why.  Cas wasn’t upset.  There wasn’t a trace of anything on his scent beside tired contentment.

Dean closed his eyes and rested his head on Cas’ shoulder.  He was tired, and he wanted to sleep, but something tugged at him, a voice.

“Why me?” Cas asked, the same way Dean had asked him earlier that week.  His fingers carded through Dean’s hair, his lips pressed in a kiss against his temple.

“You look at me,” Dean said simply, “You make me want to be more.”

\--

Dean woke with a start. 

He was curled up next to Cas, holding him against his chest.  There was a mess between them on the sheets, and Dean grimaced as he shifted his hips away from it, trying to ignore the tight mess plastered to his dick and thighs.  He really needed to work on cleaning up before passing out after sex.  Gross.

He heard a hard, demanding knock on the door downstairs, and he realized that was what must have woken him up.  The rain was still falling in soft sheets outside the window, but otherwise it was quiet and dark, and he didn’t know what time it was.  Whether it was late… or even early.  Had they slept through the night?  Dean looked over at Cas, and his eyes were open, staring back at him with a fair amount of confusion and sleepy frustration at being woken up.

“Are you expecting someone?” Cas asked, his voice just completely wrecked.

“No,” Dean said, rolling out of bed and grabbing a shirt from the pile of clothes at his feet.  He tried to wipe the mess off but it was dried and stuck to his skin, and he made a frustrated noise when the knocking started again.  “Hold your goddamn horses,” Dean growled, tossing the dirty shirt back on the floor and grabbing his jeans.  He tugged them angrily up his legs.  Great.  Awesome.  Wearing jeans with come dried in his pubes, fucking classy.  He was taking the world’s longest, hottest shower when he was finished with this asshole.  Dean heard Cas rustling around behind him, heading to the bathroom and shutting the door between them.  He probably had the same idea. 

Dean didn’t even think to grab another shirt, buttoning his pants as he pushed out of his bedroom and bounded down the stairs. The knocking kept getting louder, like whoever was on the other side was pissed at being ignored for so goddamn long.  Well, too bad for them.   Dean didn’t check before opening the door, so when he swung it back and looked out on his stoop his brain kind of short-circuited.

Yeah, he was definitely not fucking prepared for this.

Dean’s first coherent thought was that he was so goddamn _tall_.  How the hell had he gotten so tall?  His hair was longer, too, his bangs falling listlessly over his brow, his hazel eyes narrowed and wild like he wasn’t sure whether or not he wanted to punch Dean in the fucking jaw.   Which, well, fair.

Dean took a deep breath, backing up a step with his hand still clutching helplessly at the handle of the door.

“Sam?”


End file.
